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THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 





The D’Arblay Mystery 


By R. AUSTIN FREEMAN 


AUTHOR OF 


“The Blue Scarab,” “The Mystery of Angelina Frood,” 
“The Red Thumbmark,” “The Shadow of the 
Wolf,” “Singing Bone,” “The Puzzle Lock,” 
“The Magic Casket,” etc. 


Pots ol RI COMPANY. 
Publishers New York 


Published by arrangement with Dodd, Mead & Company 
Printed in U. S. A. 





Corvarcnr, 1926, 
BY R. AUSTIN FREEM: 


Published September, 19: 
Second Printing, January, 





CONTENTS 


THE Poot In THE Woop . : 

A CONFERENCE WITH Dr. THORNDYKE 
Tue Doctor’s REVELATIONS 

Mr. BENDELOW . 

INsPecror Fo.vLettT’s DIscoveRY 
Marion D’Arsptay AT HoME . 
THORNDYKE ENLaRGES His KNOWLEDGE 
SIMON BENDELOW, DECEASED . 

A StTrRaNceE MIsADVENTURE 

Marion’s PERIL , 

ARMS AND THE MAN 

A Dramatic Discovery . 

A Narrow Escape 

THe HauntepD MAn 

THORNDYKE Proposes A NEw Move 

A SURPRISE FOR THE SUPERINTENDENT 
A CHAPTER OF SURPRISES 

THe Last Act . 


THORNDYKE DISENTANGLES THE THREADS . 


III 
125 
143 
153 
165 
180 
197 
213 
230 
249 
268 





CHAPTER I 
THE POOL IN THE WOOD 


THERE are certain days in our lives which, as we recall 
them, seem to detach themselves from the general 
sequence as forming the starting-point of a new epoch. 
Doubtless, if we examined them critically, we should find 
them to be but links in a connected chain. But in a 
retrospective glance their continuity with the past is 
unperceived, and we see them in relation to the events 
which followed them rather than to those which went 
before. 

Such a day is that on which I look back through a 
vista of some twenty years; for on that day I was, sud- 
denly and without warning, plunged into the very heart 
of a drama so strange and incredible that in the recital 
of its events 1 am conscious of a certain diffidence and 
hesitation. 

The picture that rises before me as I write is very clear 
and vivid. I see myself, a youngster of twenty-five, the 
owner of a brand-new medical diploma, wending my way 
gaily down Wood-lane, Highgate, at about eight o’clock 
on a sunny morning in early autumn. I was taking a 
day’s holiday, the last I was likely to enjoy for some 
time; for on the morrow I was to enter on the duties 
of my first professional appointment. I had nothing in 
view to-day but sheer, delightful idleness. It is true that 
a sketch-book in one pocket and a box of collecting-tubes 


in another suggested a bare hint of purpose in the ex- 
: 


2 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


pedition; but primarily it was a holiday, a pleasure jaunt, 
to which art and science were no more than possible 
sources of contributory satisfaction. 

At the lower end of the lane was the entrance to 
Church-yard Bottom Wood, then open and unguarded 
save by a few hurdles (it has since been enclosed and 
re-named “‘Queen’s Wood’’). I entered and took my way 
along the broad, rough path, pleasantly conscious of the 
deep silence and seeming remoteness of this surviving 
remnant of the primeval forest of Britain, and letting 
my thoughts stray to the great plague-pit in the haunted 
wood that gave the place its name. The foliage of the 
oaks was still unchanged despite the waning of the year. 
The low-slanting sunlight spangled it with gold and made 
rosy patterns on the path, where lay a few prematurely 
fallen leaves; but in the hollows among the undergrowth 
traces of the night-mists lingered, shrouding tree-bole, 
bush, and fern in a mystery of gauzy blue. 

A turn of the path brought me suddenly within a few 
paces of a girl who was stooping at the entrance to a 
side-track, and seemed to be peering into the undergrowth 
as if looking for something. As I appeared, she stood 
up and looked round at me with a startled, apprehensive 
manner that caused me to look away and pass as if I 
had not seen her. But the single glance had shown me 
that she was a strikingly handsome girl—indeed, I should 
have used the word “beautiful”; that she seemed to be 
about my own age, and that she was evidently a lady. 

The apparition, pleasant as it was, set me speculating 
as I strode forward. It was early for a girl like this to 
be afoot in the woods, and alone, too. Not so very safe, 
either, as she had seemed to realize, judging by the start 


ee. 


THE POOL IN THE WOOD 3 


that my approach seemed to have given her. And what 
could it be that she was looking for? Had she lost some- 
thing at some previous time and come to search for it 
before any one was about? It might be so. Certainly 
she was not a poacher, for there was nothing to poach, 
and she hardly had the manner or appearance of a 
naturalist. 

A little farther on I struck into a side path which led, 
as I knew, in the direction of a small pond. That pond 
I had had in my mind when I put the box of collecting- 
tubes in my pocket, and I now made my way to it as 
directly as the winding track would let me; but still it 
was not the pond or its inmates that occupied my thoughts, 
but the mysterious maiden whom | had left peering into 
the undergrowth. Perhaps if she had been less attrac- 
tive I might have given her less consideration. But I 
was twenty-five; and if a man at twenty-five has not a 
keen and appreciative eye for a pretty girl, there must 
be something radically wrong with his mental make-up. 

In the midst of my reflections I came out into a largish 
opening in the wood, at the centre of which, in a slight 
hollow, was the pond: a small oval piece of water, fed 
by the trickle of a tiny stream, the continuation of which 
carried away the overflow towards the invisible valley. 

Approaching the margin, I brought out my box of tubes 
and, uncorking one, stooped and took a trial dip. When 
I held the glass tube against the light and examined its 
contents through my pocket lens I found that I was in 
luck. The “catch” included a green hydra, clinging to 
a rootlet of duckweed, several active water-fleas, a scarlet 
water-mite, and a beautiful sessile rotifer. Evidently this 
pond was a rich hunting ground. 


4 THE D’ARBLAY MYsSiene: 


Delighted with my success, I corked the tube, put it 
away, and brought out another, with which I took a fresh 
dip. This was less successful, but the naturalist’s ardour 
and the collector’s cupidity being thoroughly aroused, I 
persevered, gradually enriching my collection and work- 
ing my way slowly round the margin of the pond, for- 
getful of everything—even of the mysterious maiden— 
but the objects of my search; indeed, so engrossed was I 
with my pursuit of the minute denizens of this watery 
world that I failed to observe a much larger object which 
must have been in view most of the time. Actually, I did 
not see it until I was right over it. Then, as I was stoop- 
ing to clear away the duckweed for a fresh dip, I found 
myself confronted by a human face, just below the sur- 
face and half-concealed by the pond-weed. 

It was a truly appalling experience. Utterly unpre- 
pared for this awful apparition, I was so overcome by 
astonishment and horror that I remained stooping, with 
motion arrested, as if petrified, staring at the thing in 
silence and hardly breathing. The face was that of a 
man of about fifty or a little more: a handsome, refined, 
rather intellectual face, with a moustache and Vandyke 
beard, and surmounted by a thickish growth of iron-grey 
hair. Of the rest of the body little was to be seen, for 
the duckweed and water-crowfoot had drifted over it, and 
I had no inclination to disturb them. 

Recovering somewhat from the shock of this sudden 
and fearful encounter, I stood up and rapidly considered 
what I had better do. It was clearly not for me to make 
any examination or meddle with the corpse in any way; 
indeed, when I considered the early hour and the remote- 
ness of this solitary place, it seemed prudent to avoid the 


an 


“~ 


THE POOL IN THE WOOD 5 


possibility of being seen there by any chance stranger. 
Thus reflecting, with my eyes still riveted on the pallid, 
impassive face, so strangely sleeping below the glassy sur- 
face and conveying to me somehow a dim sense of famili- 
arity, | pocketed my tubes, and, turning back, stole away 
along the woodland track, treading lightly, almost stealth- 
ily, as one escaping from the scene of a crime. | 

Very different was my mood, as I retraced my steps, 
from that in which I had come. Gone was all my gaiety 
and holiday spirit. The dread meeting had brought me 
into an atmosphere of tragedy, perchance even of some- 
thing more than tragedy. With death I was familiar 
enough; death as it comes to men, prefaced by sickness 
or even by injury. But the dead man who lay in that 
still and silent pool in the heart of the wood had come 
there by none of the ordinary chances of normal life. It 
seemed barely possible that he could have fallen in by 
mere misadventure, for the pond was too shallow and its 
bottom shelved too gently for accidental drowning to be 
conceivable. Nor was the strange, sequestered spot with- 
out significance. It was just such a spot as might well 
be chosen by one who sought to end his life—or an- 
other’s. 

I had nearly reached the main path when an abrupt 
turn of the narrow track brought me once more face to 
face with the girl whose existence I had till now for- 
gotten. She was still peering into the dense undergrowth 
as if searching for something; and again, on my sudden 
appearance, she turned a startled face towards me. But 
this time I did not look away. Something in her face 
struck me with a nameless fear. It was not only that 
she was pale and haggard, but that her expression be- 


6 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


tokened anxiety and even terror. As I looked at her I 
understood in a flash the dim sense of familiarity of which 
I had been conscious in the pallid face beneath the water. 
It was her face that it had recalled. 

With my heart in my mouth, I halted and, taking off 
my cap, addressed her. 

“Pray pardon me; you seem to be searching for some- 
thing. Can I help you in any way or give you any 
information ?” 

She looked at me a little shyly and, as I thought, 
with slight distrust, but she answered civilly enough, 
though rather stiffly: 

“Thank you, but I am afraid you can’t help me. I am 
not in need of any assistance.” 

This, under ordinary circumstances, would have 
brought the interview to an abrupt end. But the cir- 
cumstances were not ordinary, and as she made as if to 
pass me I ventured to persist. 

“Please,” I urged, “don’t think me impertinent, but 
would you mind telling me what you are looking for? I 
have a reason for asking, and it isn’t curiosity.” 

She reflected for a few moments before replying, and 
I feared that she was about to administer another snub. 
Then, without looking at me, she replied: 

“T am looking for -my father’ (and at these words my 
heart'sank). “He did not come home last night. He left 
Hornsey to come home, and he would ordinarily have 
come by the path through the wood. He always came 
that way from Hornsey. So I am looking through the 
wood in case he missed his way, or was taken ill, or 4 

Here the poor girl suddenly broke off, and, letting her 
dignity go, burst into tears, I huskily murmured a few 





THe POOL IN THE WOOD ‘i 


indistinct words of condolence, but, in truth, I was little 
less affected than she was. It was a terrible position, but 
there was no escape from it. The corpse that I had just 
seen was almost certainly her father’s corpse. At any 
rate, the question whether it was or not had to be settled 
now, and settled by me—and her. That was quite clear; 
but yet I could not screw my courage up to the point of 
telling her. ‘While I was hesitating, however, she forced 
the position by a direct question. 

“You said just now that you had a reason for asking 
what I was searching for. Would it be rain Sie 
paused and looked at me inquiringly as she wiped her 
eyes. ; 

I made a last, frantic search for some means of break- 
ing the horrid news to her. Of course there was none. 
Eventually I stammered: 

“The reason I asked was—er—the fact is that I have 
just seen the body of a man lying i 

“Where?” she demanded. ‘Show me the place!” 

Without replying, I turned and began quickly to re- 
trace my steps along the narrow track. A few minutes 
brought me to the opening in which the pond was sit- 
uated, and I was just beginning to skirt the margin, 
closely followed by my companion, when I heard her 
utter a low, gasping cry. The next moment she had 
passed me and was running along the bank towards a spot 
where I could now see the toe of a boot just showing 
through the duckweed. I stopped short and watched her 
with my heart in my throat. Straight to the fatal spot 
she ran, and for a moment stood on the brink, stooping 
over the weedy surface. Then, with a terrible, wailing 
ery, she stepped into the water. 








8 THE D'ARBLAY Mixa hes 


Instantly I ran forward and waded into the pond to 
her side. Already she had her arms round the dead 
man’s neck and was raising the face above the surface. 
I saw that she meant to bring the body ashore, and, use- 
less as it was, it seemed a natural thing to do, Silently 
I passed my arms under the corpse and lifted it; 
and as she supported the head we bore it through 
the shallows and up the bank, where I laid it down 
gently in the high grass. 

Not a word had been spoken, nor was there any ques- 
tion that need be asked. The pitiful tale told itself only 
too plainly. As I stood looking with swimming eyes at 
the tragic group, a whole history seemed to unfold itself; 
a history of love and companionship, of a happy, peaceful 
past made sunny by mutual affection, shattered in an 
instant by the hideous present, with its portent of a sad 
and lonely future. She had sat down on the grass and 
taken the dead head on her lap, tenderly wiping the face 
with her handkerchief, smoothing the grizzled hair and 
crooning or moaning words of endearment into the in- 
sensible ears. She had forgotten my presence: indeed, 
she was oblivious of everything but the still form that 
bore the outward semblance of her father. 

Some minutes passed thus. I stood a little apart, cap 
in hand, more moved than I had ever been in my life, 
and, naturally enough, unwilling to break in upon a 
grief so overwhelming and, as it seemed to me, so 
sacred. But presently it began to be borne in on me that 
something had to be done. The body would have to be 
removed from this place, and the proper authorities 
ought to be notified. Still, it was some time before I 
could gather courage to intrude on her sorrow; to pro- 


THE POOL IN THE WOOD 9 


fane her grief with the sordid realities of everyday life. 
At last I braced myself up for the effort, and addressed 
her. 

“Your father,’ I said gently—I could not refer to 
him as “the body’—‘“will have to be taken away from 
here; and the proper persons will have to be informed 
of what has happened. Shall I go alone, or will you 
come with me? I don’t like to leave you here.” 

She looked up at me, and to my relief answered me 
with quiet composure: | 

“T can’t leave him here all alone. I must stay with 
him until he is taken away. Do you mind telling who- 
ever ought to be told’’—like me, she instinctively avoided 
the word “police” —‘‘and making what arrangements are 
necessary ?” 

There was nothing more to be said; and loath as I 
was to leave her alone with the dead, my heart assented 
to her decision. In her place, I should have had the 
same feeling. Accordingly, with a promise to return as 
quickly as I could, I stole away along the woodland 
track. When I turned to take a last glance at her before 
plunging into the wood, she was once more leaning over 
the head that lay in her lap, looking with fond grief into 
the impassive face and stroking the dank hair. 

My intention had been to go straight to the police- 
station, when I had ascertained its whereabouts, and 
make my report to the officer in charge. But a fortunate 
chance rendered this proceeding unnecessary, for, at the 
moment when I emerged from the top of Wood-lane, 
I saw a police-officer, mounted on a bicycle—a road 
patrol, as I assumed him to be—approaching along the 
Archway-road. I hailed him to stop, and as he dis- 


Io THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


mounted and stepped on to the footway I gave him a 
brief account of the finding of the body and my meeting 
with the daughter of the dead man. He listened with 
calm, business-like interest, and, when I had finished, 
said : 

“We had better get the body removed as quickly as 
possible. I will run along to the station and get the 
wheeled stretcher. There is no need for you to come. 
If you will go back and wait for us at the entrance to 
the wood that will save time. We shall be there within 
a quarter of an hour.” 

I agreed gladly to this arrangement, and when I had 
seen him mount his machine and shoot away along the 
road, I turned back down the Lane and re-entered the 
wood. Before taking up my post, I walked quickly 
down the path and along the track to the opening by the 
pond. My new friend was sitting just as I had left her, 
but she looked up as I emerged from the track and ad- 
vanced towards her. I told her briefly what had hap- 
pened and was about to retire when she asked: “Will 
they take him to our house?” 

“T am afraid not,’ I replied. ‘There will have to 
be an inquiry by the coroner, and until that is finished 
his body will have to remain in the mortuary.” 

“J was afraid it might be so,’ she said with quiet 
resignation; and as she spoke she looked down with in- 
finite sadness at the waxen face in her lap. A good 
deal relieved by her reasonable acceptance of the painful 
necessities, I turned back and made my way to the ren- 
dezvous at the entrance to the wood. 

As I paced to and fro on the shady path, keeping a 
look-out up the Lane, my mind was busy with the tragedy 


THE POOL IN THE WOOD II 


to which I had become a party. It was a grievous affair. 
The passionate grief which I had witnessed spoke of 
no common affection. On one life at least this disaster 
had inflicted irreparable loss, and there were probably 
others on whom the blow had yet to fall. But it was not 
only a grievous affair; it was highly mysterious. The 
dead man had apparently been returning home at night 
in a customary manner and by a familiar way. That he 
could have strayed by chance from the open, well-worn 
path into the recesses of the wood was inconceivable, 
while the hour and the circumstances made it almost as 
incredible that he should have been wandering in the 
wood by choice. And again, the water in which he had 
been lying was quite shallow; so shallow as to rule out 
accidental drowning as an impossibility. 

What could the explanation be? There seemed to be 
but three possibilities, and two of them could hardly be 
entertained. The idea of intoxication I rejected at once. 
The girl was evidently a lady, and her father was pre- 
sumably a gentleman, who would not be likely to be 
wandering abroad drunk; nor could a man who was 
sober enough to have reached the pond have been so 
helpless as to be drowned’ in its shallow waters. To 
suppose that he might have fallen into the water in a 
fit was to leave unexplained the circumstance of his 
being in that remote place at such an hour. The only 
possibility that remained was that of suicide; and I could 
not but admit that some of the appearances seemed to 
support that view. The solitary place—more solitary 
still at night—was precisely such as an intending suicide 
might be expected to seek; the shallow water presented 
_~ no inconsistency; and when I recalled how I had found 


2 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


his daughter searching the wood with evident fore- 
boding of evil, I could not escape the feeling that the 
dreadful possibility had not been entirely unforeseen. 

My meditations had reached this point when, as I 
turned once more towards the entrance and looked up 
the Lane, I saw two constables approaching, trundling a 
wheeled stretcher, while a third man, apparently an in- 
spector, walked by its side. As the little procession 
reached the entrance, and I turned back to show the way, 
the latter joined me and began at once to interrogate 
me. I gave him my name, address, and occupation, and 
followed this with a rapid sketch of the facts as known 
to me, which he jotted down in a large notebook, and 
he then said: | 

“As you are a doctor, you can probably tell me how 
long the man had been dead when you first saw him.” 

“By the appearance and the rigidity,’ I replied, “1 
should say about nine or ten hours; which agrees pretty 
well with the account his daughter gave of his move- 
ments.” 

The inspector nodded. “The man and the young 
lady,” said he, “are strangers to you, I understand. I 
suppose you haven’t picked up anything that would throw 
any light on the affair?” 

“No,” I answered; “I know nothing but what I have 
told you.” | 

“Well,” he remarked, “it’s a queer business. It is a 
queer place for a man to be in at night, and he must 
have gone there of his own accord. But there, it is no 
use guessing. It will all be thrashed out at the inquest.” 

As he reached this discreet conclusion, we came out 
into the opening and I heard him murmur very feelingly, 


THE POOL IN THE WOOD 13 


“Dear, dear! Poor thing.” The girl seemed hardly 
to have changed her position since I had last seen her, 
but she now tenderly laid the dead head on the grass and 
rose aS we approached; and I saw with great concern 
that her skirts were soaked almost from the waist down- 
wards, 

The officer took off his cap and as he drew near 
looked down gravely but with an inquisitive eye at the 
dead man. Then he turned to the girl and said in a 
singularly gentle and deferential manner: 

“This is a very terrible thing, Miss. A dreadful 
thing. I assure you that I am more sorry for you than 
I can tell; and I hope you will forgive me for having 
to intrude on your sorrow by asking questions. I won't 
trouble you more than I can help.” 

“Thank you,” she replied quietly. “Of course I re- 
alize your position. What do you want me to tell you?” 

“T understand,’’ replied the inspector, “that this poor 
gentleman was your father. Would you mind telling me 
who he was and where he lived and giving me your own 
name and addess?” 

“My father’s name,” she answered, “was Julius 
D’Arblay. His private address was Ivy Cottage, North 
Grove, Highgate. His studio and workshop, where he 
carried on the profession of a modeller, is in Abbey- 
road, Hornsey. My name is Marion D’Arblay, and I 
lived with my father. He was a widower and I was 
his only child.’ 

As she concluded, with a slight break in her voice, 
the inspector shook his head, and again murmured, “Dear, 
dear,” as he rapidly entered her answers in his notebook. 
Then, in a deeply apologetic tone, he asked: 


14 THE D'ARBLAY MYSTERY 


“Would you mind telling us what you know as to 
how this happened ?” 

“T know very little,’ she replied. “As he did not 
come home last night, I went to the studio this morning 
quite early to see if he was there. He sometimes stayed 
there all night when he was working very late. The 
woman who lives in the adjoining house and looks after 
the studio, told me that he had been working late last 
night, but that he left to come home soon after ten. 
He always used to come through the wood because it 
was the shortest way and the most pleasant. So when 
I learned that he had started to come home, I came to 
the wood to see if I could find any traces of him. Then 
I met this gentleman, and he told me that he had seen 
a dead man in the wood, and ” Here she suddenly 
broke down, and, sobbing passionately, flung out her 
hand towards the corpse. 

The inspector shut his notebook and, murmuring some 
indistinct words of sympathy, nodded to the constables, 
who had drawn up the stretcher a few paces away and 
lifted off the cover. On this silent instruction they ap- 
proached the body, and, with the inspector’s assistance 
and mine, lifted it on to the stretcher without removing 
the latter from its carriage. As they picked up the cover 
the inspector turned to Miss D’Arblay and said gently 
but finally : “You had better not come with us. We must 
take him to the mortuary, but you will see him again after 
the inquest, when he will be brought to your house if 
you wish it.” 

She made no objection : but as the constables approached 
with the cover she stooped over the stretcher and kissed 
the dead man on the forehead. Then she turned away; 





THE POOL IN THE WOOD 15 


the cover was placed in position; the inspector and the 
constables saluted reverently, and the stretcher was 
wheeled away along the narrow track. 

For some time after it had gone, we stood in silence at 
the margin of the pond with our eyes fixed on the place 
where it had disappeared. I considered in no little 
embarrassment what was to be done next. It was most 
desirable that Miss D’Arblay should be got home as soon 
as possible, and I did not at all like the idea of her going 
alone, for her appearance, with her drenched skirts and 
her dazed and rather wild expression, was such as to 
attract unpleasant attention. But I was a total stranger 
to her, and I felt a little shy of pressing my company 
on her. However, it seemed a plain duty, and, as I saw 
her shiver slightly, I said: 

“You had better go home now and change your 
clothes. They are very wet. And you have some dis- 
tance to go.” 

She looked down at her soaked dress and then she 
looked at me. 

“You are rather wet, too,” she said. ‘I am afraid 
I have given you a great deal of trouble.” 

“It is little enough that I have been able to do,” I re- 
plied. “But you must really go home now; and if you 
will let me walk with you and see you safely to your 
house, I shall be much more easy in my mind.” 

“Thank you,” she replied. “It is kind of you to 
offer to see me home, and I am glad not to have to go 
alone.” 

With this, we walked together to the edge of the open- 
ing, and proceeded in single file along the track to the 
main path, and so out into Wood-lane, at the top of 


16 THE: D’ARBLAY Diiaee 


which we crossed the Archway Road into Southwood- 
lane. We walked mostly in silence, for I was unwilling 
to disturb her meditations with attempts at conversation, 
which could only have seemed banal or impertinent. For 
her part, she appeared to be absorbed in reflections the 
nature of which I could easily guess, and her grief was 
too fresh for any thought of distraction. But I found 
myself speculating with profound discomfort on what 
might be awaiting her at home. It is true that her own 
desolate state as an orphan without brothers or sisters 
had its compensation in that there was no wife to whom 
the dreadful tidings had to be imparted, nor any fellow 
orphans to have their bereavement broken to them. But 
there must be some one who cared; or, if there were not, 
what a terrible loneliness would reign in that house! 

“T hope,’ I said, as we approached our destination, 
“that there is some one at home to share your grief and 
comfort you a. little.” 

“There is,” she replied. “I was thinking of her, and 
how grievous it will be to have to tell her: an old serv- 
ant and a dear friend. She was my mother’s nurse when 
the one was a child and the other but a young girl. She 
came to our house when my mother married, and has 
managed our home ever since, This will be a terrible 
shock to her, for she loved my father dearly—every one 
loved him who knew him. And she has been like a 
mother to me since my own mother died. I don’t know 
how I shail break it to her.” 

Her voice trembled as she concluded and I was deeply 
troubled to think of the painful homecoming that loomed 
before her; but still it was a comfort to know that her 
sorrow would be softened by sympathy and loving com 


THE POOL IN THE WOOD 17 


panionship, not heightened by the empty desolation that 
I had feared. 

A few minutes more brought us to the little square— 
which, by the way, was triangular—and to a pleasant 
little old-fashioned house, on the gate of which was 
painted the name, “Ivy Cottage.” In the bay window 
on the ground floor I observed a formidable-looking 
elderly woman, who was watching our approach with 
evident curiosity; which, as we drew nearer and the 
_ State of our clothing became visible, gave place to anxiety 
and alarm. Then she disappeared suddenly, to reappear 
a few moments later at the open door, where she stood 
viewing us both with consternation and me in particular 
with profound disfavour. 

At the gate Miss D’Arblay halted and held out her 
hand. “Good-bye,” she said. “I must thank you some 
other time for all your kindness;’ and with this she 
turned abruptly, and, opening the gate, walked up the 
little paved path to the door where the old woman was 
waiting. 


CHAPTER II 
A CONFERENCE WITH DR. THORNDYKE 


THE sound of the closing door seemed, as it were, to 
punctuate my experiences and to mark the end of a 
particular phase.. So long as Miss D’Arblay was present, 
my attention was entirely taken up by her grief and dis- 
tress; but now that I was alone I found myself consid- 
ering at large the events of this memorable morning. 
What was the meaning of this tragedy? How came this 
man to be lying dead in that pool? No common mis- 
adventure seemed to fit the case. A man may easily fall 
into deep water and be drowned; may step over a quay- 
side in the dark or trip on a mooring-rope or ring-bolkt. 
But here there was nothing to suggest any possible acci- 
dent. The water was hardly two feet deep where the 
body was lying and much less close to the edge. If he 
had walked in in the dark, he would simply have walked 
out again. Besides, how came he there at all? The only 
explanation that was intelligible was that he went there 
with the deliberate purpose of making away with himself. 

I pondered this explanation, and found myself unwill- 
ing to accept it, notwithstanding that his daughter’s pres- 
ence in the wood, her obvious apprehension, and her 
terrified searching among the underwood seemed to hint 
at a definite expectation on her part. But yet that possi- 
bility was discounted by what his daughter had told me 
of him. Little as she had said, it was clear that he was 


a man universally beloved. Such men, in making the 
18 : 


~—e 
a 


eS 


Pen ere o- 


a ie a ee 


a 
Rte <a 
a 


A CONFERENCE WITH DR. THORNDYKE 19 


world a pleasant place for others, make it pleasant for 
themselves, They are usually happy men; and happy 
men do not commit suicide. Yet, if the idea of suicide 
were rejected, what was left? Nothing but an insoluble - 
mystery. 

I turned the problem over again and again as I sat 
on the top of the tram (where I could keep my wet 
trousers out of sight), not as a matter of mere curiosity 
but as one in which I was personally concerned. Friend- 
ships spring up into sudden maturity under great emo- 
tional stress. I had known Marion D’Arblay but an 
hour or two, but they were hours which neither of us 
would ever forget; and in that brief space she had become 
to me a friend who was entitled, as of right, to sympathy 
and service. So, as I revolved in my mind the mystery 
of this man’s death, I found myself thinking of him 
not as a chance stranger but as the father of a friend; 
and thus it seemed to devolve upon me to elucidate the 
mystery, if possible. 

It is true that J had no special qualifications for in- 
vestigating an obscure case of this kind, but yet I was 
better equipped than most young medical men. For my 
hospital, St. Margaret’s, though its medical school was 
but a small one, had one great distinction; the chair of 
Medical Jurisprudence was occupied by one of the great- 
est living authorities on the subject, Dr. John Thorndyke. 
To him and his fascinating lectures my mind naturally 
turned as I ruminated on the problem; and presently, 
when I found myself unable to evolve any reasonable 
suggestion, the idea occurred to me to go and lay the 
facts before the great man himself, 

Once started, the idea took full possession of me, and 


20 THE D'ARBLAY: MYSerRy 


I decided to waste no time but to seek him at once, This 
was not his day for lecturing at the hospital, but I could 
find his address in our school calendar; and as my means, 
though modest, allowed of my retaining him in a regu- 
lar way, I need have no scruples as to occupying his time. 
I looked at my watch. It was even now but a little past 
noon. I had time to change and get an early lunch and 
still make my visit while the day was young. 

A couple of hours later found me walking slowly down 
the pleasant, tree-shaded footway of King’s Bench-walk 
in the Inner Temple, looking up at the numbers above 
the entries. Dr. Thorndyke’s number was 5a, which I 
presently discovered inscribed on the keystone of a fine, 
dignified brick portico of the seventeenth century, on the 
jamb whereof was painted his name as the occupant of 
the “ist pair.”” I accordingly ascended the first pair, and 
was relieved to find that my teacher was apparently at 
home; for a massive outer door, above which his name 
was painted, stood wide open, revealing an inner door, 
furnished with a small, brilliantly burnished brass 
knocker, on which I ventured to execute a modest rat-tat. 
Almost immediately the door was opened by a small, 
clerical-looking gentleman who wore a black linen apron 
—and ought, from his appearance, to have had black 
gaiters to match—and who regarded me with a look of 
polite inquiry. 3 

“T wanted to see Dr. Thorndyke,” said I, adding dis- 
creetly, “on a matter of professional business,” 

The little gentleman beamed on me _benevolently. 
“The doctor,” said he, “has gone to lunch at his club, 
but he will be coming in quite shortly. Would you like 
to wait for him?” 


A CONFERENCE WITH DR. THORNDYKE a1 


“Thank you,” I replied, “I should, if you think I shall 
not be disturbing him.” 

‘The little gentleman smiled; that is to say, the multi- 
tudinous wrinkles that covered his face arranged them- 
selves into a sort of diagram of geniality. It was the 
crinkliest smile that I have ever seen, but a singularly 
pleasant one. 

“The doctor,” said he, “is never disturbed by profes- 
sional business. No man is ever disturbed by having 
to do what he enjoys doing.” 

As he spoke, his eyes turned unconsciously to the table, 
on which stood a microscope, a tray of slides and mount- 
ing material, and a small heap of what looked like dress- 
maker’s cuttings. 

“Weil,’ I said, “don’t let me disturb you, if you are 
busy.” 

He thanked me very graciously, and, having installed 
me in an easy chair, sat down at the table and resumed 
his occupation, which apparently consisted in isolating 
fibres from the various samples of cloth and mounting 
them as microscopic specimens. I watched him as he 
worked, admiring his neat, precise, unhurried methods, 
and speculating on the purpose of his proceedings; 
whether he was preparing what one might call museum 
specimens, to be kept for reference, or whether these 
preparations were related to some particular case. I was 
considering whether it would be admissible for me to 
ask a question on the subject when he paused in his 
work, assuming a listening attitude, with one hand— 
holding a mounting-needle—raised and motionless. 

“Here comes the doctor,” said he. 

I listened intently and became aware of footsteps, very 


22 THE’ D’/ARBLAY “Miysiee 


faint and far away, and only barely perceptible. But 
my clerical friend—who must have had the auditory 
powers of a watch-dog—had no doubts as to their iden- 
tity, for he began quietly to pack all his material on the 
tray. Meanwhile the footsteps drew nearer; they turned 
in at the entry and ascended the “first pair,” by which 
time my crinkly-faced acquaintance had the door open. 
The next moment Dr. Thorndyke entered and was duly 
informed that “fa gentleman was waiting to see’ him. 

“You under-estimate my powers of observation, Pol- 
ton,” he informed his subordinate, with a smile, “I can 
see the gentleman distinctly with the naked eye. How 
do you do, Gray?’—and he shook my hand cordially. 

“T hope I haven’t come at the wrong time, sir,’ said 
I. “If I have, you must adjourn me. But I want to con- 
sult you about a rather queer case.” 

“Good,” said Thorndyke. “There is no wrong time 
for a queer case, Let me hang up my hat and fill my 
pipe and then you can proceed to make my flesh creep.” 

He disposed of his hat, and when Mr. Polton had 
departed with his tray of material he filled his pipe, laid 
a note block on the table, and invited me to begin; where- 
upon I gave him a detailed account of what had befallen 
me in the course of the morning, to which he listened 
with close attention, jotting down an occasional note, 
but not interrupting my narrative. When I had finished 
he read through his notes and then said: 

“It is, of course, evident to you that all the appearances. 
point to suicide. Have you any reasons, other than those 
you have mentioned, for rejecting that view?” 

“T am afraid not,” I replied gloomily. “But you have 


A CONFERENCE WITH DR. THORNDYKE 23 


always taught us to beware of too ready acceptance of 
the theory of suicide in doubtful cases.”’ 

He nodded approvingly. “Yes,” he said, “that is a 
cardinal principle in medico-legal practice. All other 
possibilities should be explored before suicide is accepted. 
But our difficulty in this case is that we have hardly 
any of the relevant facts. The evidence at the inquest 
may make everything clear. On the other hand it may 
leave things obscure. But what is your concern with the 
case? You are merely a witness to the finding of the 
body. The parties are all strangers to you, are they 
not?” 

“They were,” I replied. “But I feel that some one 
ought to keep an eye on things for Miss D’Arblay’s 
sake, and circumstances seem to have put the duty on me. 
So, as I can afford to pay any costs that are likely to be 
incurred, I proposed to ask you to undertake the case— 
on a strict business footing, you know, sir.” 

“When you speak of my undertaking the case,” said 
he, “what is it that is in your mind? What do you want 
me to do in the matter?” 

“IT want you to take any measures that you may think 
necessary,’ I replied, ‘‘to ascertain definitely, if possible, 
how this man came by his death.” 

He reflected awhile before answering. At length he 
said: 

“The examination of the body will be conducted by 
the person whom the coroner appoints, probably the 
police surgeon, I will write to the coroner for permis- 
sion to be present at the post-mortem examination. He 
will certainly make no difficulties. I will also write to the 


24. THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


police surgeon, who is sure to be quite helpful. If the 
post-mortem throws no light on the case—in fact, in 
any event—I will instruct a first-class shorthand writer 
to attend at the inquest and make a verbatim report of the 
evidence ; and you, of course, will be present as a witness. 
That, I think, is about all that we can do at present. 
When we have heard all the evidence, including that fur- 
nished by the body itself, we shall be able to judge 
whether the case calls for further investigation. How 
will that do?” 

“It is all that I could wish,” I answered, “and I am 
most grateful to you, sir, for giving your time to the 
case. I hope you don’t think I have been unduly meddle- 
some.” 

“Not in the least,’ he replied warmly. “TI think you 
have shown a very proper spirit in the way you have 
interpreted your neighbourly duties to this poor, bereaved 
girl, who, apparently, has no one else to watch over her 
interests. And I take it as a compliment from an old 
pupil that you should seek my help.” 

I thanked him again, very sincerely, and had risen 
to take my leave, when he held up his hand. 

“Sit down, Gray, if you are not in a hurry,” said he. 
“T hear the pleasant clink of crockery. Let us follow the 
example of the eminent Mr. Pepys—though it isn’t al- 
ways a safe thing to do—and taste of the ‘China drinke 
called Tee,’ while you tell me what you have been doing 
since you went forth from the fold.” 

It struck me that the sense of hearing was uncom- 
monly well developed in this establishment, for I had 
heard nothing ; but a few moments later the door opened 
very quietly, and Mr. Polton entered with a tray on 


A’ CONFERENCE WITH DR. THORNDYKE 25 


which was a very trim, and even dainty, tea service, 
which he set out noiselessly and with a curious neatness 
of hand, on a small table placed conveniently between our 
chairs. 

“Thank you, Polton,’ said Thorndyke. “I see you 
diagnosed my visitor as a professional brother.” 

Polton crinkled benevolently and admitted that he 
“thought the gentleman looked like one of us’; and with 
this he melted away, closing the door behind him without 
a sound. 

“Well,” said Thorndyke, as he handed me my tea-cup, 
“what have you been doing with yourself since you left 
the hospital ?” 

“Principally looking for a job,’ I replied; “and now 
[ve found one—a temporary job, though I don’t know 
how temporary. To-morrow I take over the practice of 
a man named Cornish in Mecklenburgh-square. Cornish 
is a good deal run down, and wants to take a quiet holi- 
day on the East Coast. He doesn’t know how long he 
will be away. It depends on his health; but I have told 
him that I am prepared to stay as long as he wants me 
to. I hope I shan’t make a mess of the job, but I 
know nothing of general practice.” 

“You will soon pick it up,’ said Thorndyke; “but 
you had better get your principal to show you the ropes 
before he goes, particularly the dispensing and book- 
keeping. The essentials of practice, you know, but the 
little practical details have to be learnt, and you are doing 
well to make your first plunge into professional life in a 
practice that is a going concern. The experience will 
be valuable when you make a start on your own account.” 

On this plane of advice and comment our talk pro- 


26 THE: D’ARBLAY MYst ian. 


ceeded until I thought that I had stayed long enough, 
when I once more rose to depart. Then, as we were 
shaking hands, Thorndyke reverted to the object of my 
visit. 

“T shall not appear in this case unless the coroner 
wishes me to,” said he. “I shall consult with the official 
medical witness, and he will probably give our joint con- 
clusions in his evidence; unless we should fail to agree, 
which is very unlikely. But you will be present, and you 
had better attend closely to the evidence of all the wit- 
nesses and let me have your account of the inquest as 
well as the shorthand writer’s report. Good-bye, Gray. 
You won’t be far away if you should want my help or 
advice.” 

I left the precints of the Temple in a much more 
satisfied frame of mind, The mystery which seemed to 
me to surround the death of Julius D’Arblay would be 
investigated by a supremely competent observer, and I 
need not further concern myself with it. Perhaps there 
was no mystery at all. Possibly the evidence at the in- 
quest would supply a simple explanation. At any rate, 
it was out of my hands and into those of one immeas- 
urably more capable and I could now give my undivided 
attention to the new chapter of my life that was to open 
on the morrow. 


CHAPTER III 
THE DOCTOR’S REVELATIONS 


It was in the evening of the very day on which I took 
up my duties at number 61 Mecklenburgh-square that 
the little blue paper was delivered summoning me to at- 
tend at the inquest on the following day. Fortunately, 
Dr. Cornish’s practice was not of a highly strenuous 
type, and the time of year tended to a small visiting list, 
so that I had no difficulty in making the necessary ar- 
rangements. In fact, I made them so well that I was 
the first to arrive at the little building in which the 
inquiry was to be held and was admitted by the care- 
taker to the empty room. A few minutes later, however, 
the inspector made his appearance, and while I was ex- 
changing a few words with him the jury began to straggle 
in, followed by the reporters, a few spectators and wit- 
nesses, and finally the coroner, who immediately took his 
place at the head of the table and prepared to open the 
proceedings. 

At this moment I observed Miss D’Arblay standing 
hesitatingly in the doorway and looking into the room 
as 1f{ reluctant to enter. I at once rose and went to her, 
and as I approached she greeted me with a friendly smile 
and held out her hand; and I then perceived, lurking just 
outside, a tall, black-apparelled woman, whose face I 
recognized as that which I had seen at the window. 

“This,” said Miss D’Arblay, presenting me, “is my 

27 


28 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


friend, Miss Boler, of whom I spoke to you. . This, Ara- 
bella dear, is the gentleman who was so kind to me on 
that dreadful day.” 

I bowed deferentially, and Miss Boler recognized my 
existence by a majestic inclination, remarking that she 
remembered me. As the coroner now began his pre- 
liminary address to the jury, I hastened to find three 
chairs near the table, and, having inducted the ladies into 
two of them, took the third myself, next to Miss — 
D’Arblay. The coroner and the jury now rose and went 
out to the adjacent mortuary to view the body, and dur- 
ing their absence I stole an occasional critical glance at 
my fair friend. 

Marion D’Arblay was, as I have said, a strikingly 
handsome girl. The fact seemed now to dawn on me 
afresh, as a new discovery; for the harrowing circum- 
stances of our former meeting had so preoccupied me 
that I had given little attention to her personality. But 
now, as I looked her over anxiously to see how the 
grievous days had dealt with her, it was with a sort of 
surprised admiration that I noted the beautiful, thought- 
ful face, the fine features, and the wealth of dark, grace- 
fully disposed hair. I was relieved, too, to see the change 
that a couple of days had wrought. The wild, dazed 
look was gone. Though she was pale and heavy-eyed 
and looked tired and infinitely sad, her manner was calm, 
quiet and perfectly self-possessed. 

“T am afraid,” said I, “that this is going to be rather 
a painful ordeal for you.” 

“Yes,” she agreed; “it is all very dreadful. But it is 
a dreadful thing in any case to be bereft in a moment 
of the one whom one loves best in all the world. The 


ire OC LOR'S REVELATIONS 29 


circumstances of the loss cannot make very much dif- 
ference. It is the loss itself that matters. The worst 
moment was when the blow fell—when we found him. 
This inquiry and the funeral are just the drab accom- 
paniments that bring home the ay of what has hap- 
pened.” 

“Has the inspector called on you?” I asked. 

“Yes,” she replied. “He had to, to get the particu- 
lars; and he was so kind and delicate that I am not in 
the least afraid of the examination by the coroner. 
Every one has been kind to me, but none so kind as you 
were on that terrible morning.” 

I could not see that I had done anything to call for 
so much gratitude, and I was about to enter a modest 
disclaimer when the coroner and the jury returned, and 
the inspector approached somewhat hurriedly. 

“Tt will be necessary,” said he, “for Miss D’Arblay to 
see the body—just to identify deceased; a glance will be 
enough. And, as you are a witness, Doctor, you had 
better go with her to the mortuary. I will show you 
the way.” 

Miss D’Arblay rose without any comment or apparent 
reluctance, and we followed the inspector to the adjoin- 
ing mortuary, where, having admitted us, he stood out- 
side awaiting us. The body lay on the slate-topped 
table, covered with a sheet excepting the face, which was 
exposed and was undisfigured by any traces of the exami- 
nation. I watched my friend a little nervously as we 
entered the grim chamber, fearful that this additional 
trial might be too much for her self-control. But she 
kept command of herself, though she wept quietly as she 
stood beside the table looking down on the still, waxen- 


30 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


faced figure. After standing thus for a few moments, 
she turned away with a smothered sob, wiped her eyes, 
and walked out of the mortuary. 

When we re-entered the court-room, we found our 
chairs moved up to the table, and the coroner waiting to 
call the witnesses. As I had expected, my name was 
the first on thé list, and, on being called, 1 took my place 
by the table near to the coroner and was duly sworn. 

“Will you give us your name, occupation, and ad- 
dress?” the coroner asked. 

“My name is Stephen Gray,” I replied. “I am a 
medical practitioner, and my temporary address is 61, 
Mecklenburgh-square, London.”’ 

“When you say ‘your temporary address’ you 
mean ge: 

“TJ am taking charge of a medical practice at that ad- 
dress. I shall be there six weeks or more.” 

“Then that will be your address for our purposes. 
Have you viewed the body that is now lying in the 
mortuary, and, if so, do you recognize it?” 

“Yes. It is the body which I saw lying in a pond in 
Church-yard Bottom Wood on the morning of the 16th 
instant—last Tuesday.” 

“Can you tell us how long deceased had been dead 
when you first saw the body?” 

“T should say he had been dead nine or ten hours.” 

“Will you relate the circumstances under which you 
discovered the body?” 

I gave a circumstantial account of the manner in which 
I made the tragic discovery, to which not only the jury 
but also the spectators listened with eager interest. When 
I had finished my narrative, the coroner asked: “Did 





THE DOCTOR’S REVELATIONS 31 


you observe anything which led you, as a medical man, 
to form any opinion as to the cause of death?” 

“No,” I replied. “I saw no injuries or marks of vio- 
lence or anything which was not consistent with death 
by drowning.” 

This concluded my evidence, and when I had resumed 
my seat, the name of Marion D’Arblay was called by 
the coroner, who directed that a chair should be placed 
for the witness. When she had taken her seat, he con- 
veyed to her, briefly, but feelingly, his own and the jury’s 
sympathy. 

“It has been a terrible experience for you,” he said, 
“and we are most sorry to have to trouble you in your 
great affliction, but you will understand that it is un- 
avoidable.” | 

“IT quite understand that,” she replied, “and I wish 
to thank you and the jury for your kind sympathy.” 

She was then sworn, and having given her name and 
address, proceeded to answer the questions addressed to 
her, which elicited a narrative of the events substantially 
identical with that which she had given to the inspector 
and which I have already recorded. 

“You have told us,” said the coroner, “that when Dr. 
Gray spoke to you, you were searching among the bushes. 
Will you tell us what was in your mind—what you were 
searching for, and what induced you to make that 
search ?” 

“I was very uneasy about my father,” she replied. 
“He had not been home that night, and he had not told 
me that he intended to stay at the studio—as he some- 
times did when he was working very late. So, in the 
morning I went to the studio in Abbey-road to see if he 


a2 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


was there; but the caretaker told me that he had started 
for home about ten o’clock. Then I began to fear that 
something had happened to him, and as he always came 
home by the path through the wood, I went there to see 
if—if anything had happened to him.” 

“Had you in your mind any definite idea as to what 
might have happened to him?” 

“TI thought he might have been taken ill or have fallen 
down dead. He once told me that he would probably 
die quite suddenly. I believe that he suffered from some 
affection of the heart, but he did not like speaking about 
his health.” 

“Are you sure that there was nothing more than this 
in your mind?” 

“There was nothing more. I thought that his heart 
might have failed and that he might have wandered, in 
a half-conscious state, away from the main path and 
fallen dead in one of the thickets.” 

The coroner pondered this reply for some time. I 
could not see why, for it was plain and straightforward 
enough. At length he said, very gravely and with what 
seemed to me unnecessary emphasis: 

“T want you to be quite frank and open with us, Miss 
D’Arblay. Can you swear that there was no other possi- 
bility in your mind than that of sudden illness?” 

She looked at him in surprise, apparently not under- 
standing the drift of the question. As to me, I assumed 
that he was endeavoring delicately to ascertain whether 
deceased was addicted to drink. | 

“T have told you exactly what was in my mind,” she 
replied. 

“Have you ever had any reason to suppose, or to en- 


ee ae ee a a ee ae 


THE DOCTOR’S REVELATIONS 33 


tertain the possibility, that your father might take his 
own life?” 

“Never,” she answered emphatically. “He was a 
happy, even-tempered man, always interested in his work, 
and always in good spirits. I am sure he would never 
have taken his own life.” 

The coroner nodded with a rather curious air of 
satisfaction, as if he were concurring with the witness’s 
statement. Then he asked in the same grave, emphatic 
manner : 

“So far as you know, had your father any enemies?” 

“No,” she replied confidently. “He was a kindly, ami- 
able man who disliked nobody, and every one who knew 
him loved him.” 

As she uttered this panegyric (and what prouder tes- 
timony could a daughter have given?), her eyes filled, 
and the coroner looked at her with deep sympathy but 
yet with a somewhat puzzled expression. 

“You are sure,” he said gently, “that there was no 
one whom he might have injured—even inadvertently— 
or who bore him any grudge or ill-will?” 

“T am sure,” she answered, “that he never injured 
or gave offence to any one, and I do not believe that there 
was any person in the whole world who bore him any- 
thing but goodwill.” 

The coroner noted this reply, and as he entered it in 
the depositions his face bore the same curious puzzled 
or doubtful expression. When he had written the 
answer down, he asked: 

“By the way, what was the deceased’s occupation ?” 

“He was a sculptor by profession, but in late years he 
worked principally as a modeller for various trades— 


34 THE D’ARBLAY MY¥Si ia. 


pottery manufacturers, picture-frame makers, carvers, and 
the makers of high-class wax figures for shop windows.” 

“Had he any assistants or subordinates?” 

“No. He worked alone. Occasionally I helped him 
with his moulds when he was very busy or had a very 
large work on hand; but usually he did everything him- 
self. Of course, he occasionally employed models.” 

“Do you know who those models were?” 

“They were professional models. The men, I think, 
were all Italians, and some of the women were too. I 
believe my father kept a list of them in his address 
book.” 

“Was he working from a model on the night of his 
death ?” 

“No. He was making the moulds for a porcelain 
statuette.” 

“Did you ever hear that he had any kind of trouble with 
his models ?”’ 

“Never. He seemed always on the best of terms with 
them, and he used to speak of them most appreciatively.” 

“What sort of persons are professional models? 
Should you say they are a decent, well-conducted class?” 

“Yes. They are usually most respectable, hard-work- 
ing people; and, of course, they are sober and decent in 
their habits or they would be of no use for their pro- 
fessional duties.” 

The coroner meditated on these replies with a specu- 
lative eye on the witness. After a short pause, he began 
along another line. 

“Did deceased ever carry about with him property of 
any considerable value?” 

“Never, to my knowledge.” 





THE DOCTOR’S REVELATIONS 35 


“No jewellery, plate, or valuable material?” 

“No. His work was practically all in plaster or wax. 
He did no goldsmith’s work and he used no precious 
material.” 

“Did he ever have any considerable sums of money 
about him?” 

“No. He received all his payments by cheque and 
he made his payments in the same way. His habit was 
to carry very little money on his person—usually not 
more than one or two pounds.” 

Once more the coroner reflected profoundly. It 
seemed to me that he was trying to elicit some fact—I 
could not imagine what—and was failing utterly. At 
length, after another puzzled look at the witness, he 
turned to the jury and inquired if any of them wished to 
put any questions; and when they had severally shaken 
their heads he thanked Miss D’Arblay for the clear and 
straightforward way in which she had given her evi- 
dence and released her. 

While the examination had been proceeding, I had 
allowed my eyes to wander round the room with some 
curiosity: for this was the first time that I had ever been 
present at an inquest. From the jury, the witnesses in 
waiting and the reporters—among whom I tried to iden- 
tify Dr. Thorndyke’s stenographer—my attention was 
presently transferred to the spectators. There were only 
a few of them, but I found myself wondering why there 
should be any. What kind of person attends as a spec- 
tator at an ordinary inquest such as this appeared to be? 
The newspaper reports of the finding of the body were 
quite unsensational and promised no startling develop- 
ments. Finally I decided that they were probably local 


36 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


residents who had some knowledge of the deceased and 
were just indulging their neighbourly curiosity. 

Among them my attention was particularly attracted 
by a middle-aged woman who sat near me: at least I 
judged her to be middle-aged, though the rather dense , 
black veil that she wore obscured her face to a great ex- 
tent. Apparently she was a widow, and advertised the 
fact by the orthodox, old-fashioned “weeds.” But I 
could see that she had white hair and wore spectacles. 
She held a folded newspaper on her knee, apparently 
dividing her attention between the printed matter and 
the proceedings of the court. She gave me the im- 
pression of having come in to spend an idle hour, com- 
bining a somewhat perfunctory reading of the paper with 
a still more perfunctory attention to the rather grue- 
some entertainment that the inquest afforded. 

The next witness called was the doctor who had made 
the official examination of the body; on whom my be- 
reaved friend bestowed a listless, incurious glance and 
then returned to her newspaper. He was a youngish 
man, though his hair was turning gray, with a quiet but 
firm and confident manner and a very clear, pleasant 
voice. The preliminaries having been disposed of, the 
coroner led off with the question: 

“You have made an examination of the body of the 
deceased ?” 

“Yes. It is that of a well-proportioned, fairly muscu- 
lar man of about sixty, quite healthy with the exception 
of the heart, one of the valves of which—the mitral 
valve—was incompetent and allowed some leakage of 
blood to take place.” 


THE DOCTOR’S REVELATIONS 37 


“Was the heart affection sufficient to account for the 
death of deceased?” 

“No. It was quite a serviceable heart. There was 
good compensation—that is to say, there was extra 
growth of muscle to make up for the leaky valve. So 
far as his heart was concerned, deceased might have 
lived for another twenty years.” 

“Were you able to ascertain what actually was the 
cause of death?” 

“Yes. The cause of death was aconitine poisoning.” 

At this reply a murmur of astonishment arose from 
the jury, and I heard Miss D’Arblay suddenly draw in 
her breath. The spectators sat up on their benches, and 
even the veiled lady was so far interested as to look up 
from her paper. 

“How had the poison been administered?” the cor- 
oner asked. 

“It had been injected under the skin by means of a 
hypodermic syringe.” 

“Can you give an opinion as to whether the poison 
was administered to deceased by himself or by some other 
person?” 

“It could not have been injected by deceased himself,” 
the witness replied. “The needle-puncture was in the 
back, just below the left shoulder-blade. It is, in my 
opinion, physically impossible for any one to inject into 
his own body with a hypodermic syringe in that spot. 
And, of course, a person who was administering an in- 
jection to himself would select the most convenient spot 
—such as the front of the thigh. But apart from the 
question of convenience, the place in which the needle- 


38 THE D’ARBLAY MY¥SPERY 


puncture was found was actually out of reach.” Here 
the witness produced a hypodermic syringe, the action 
of which he demonstrated with the aid of a glass of 
water; and having shown the impossibility of applying 
it to the spot that he had described, passed the syringe 
round for the jury’s inspection. | 

“Have you formed any opinion as to the purpose for - 
which this drug was administered in this manner?” 

“T have no doubt that it was administered for the pur- 
pose of causing the death of deceased.” 

“Might it not have been administered for medicinal 
purposes ?” 

“That is quite inconceivable. Leaving out of con- 
sideration the circumstances—the time and place where 
the administration occurred—the dose excludes the pos- 
sibility of medicinal purposes. It was a lethal dose. 
From the tissues round the needle-puncture we recovered 
the twelfth of a grain of aconitine. That alone was more 
than enough to cause death. But a quantity of the poison 
had been absorbed, as was shown by the fact that we 
recovered a recognizable trace from the liver.” 

“What is the medicinal dose of aconitine?” 

“The maximum medicinal dose is about the four- 
hundredth of a grain, and even that is not very safe. As 
a matter of fact, aconitine is very seldom used in medi- 
cal practice. It is a dangerous drug, and of no particular 
value.” 

“How much aconitine do you suppose was injected ?”’ 

“Not less than the tenth of a grain—that is about 
forty times the maximum medicinal dose. Probably 
more.” 

“There can, I suppose, be no doubt as to the accuracy 


THE DOCTOR’S REVELATIONS 39 


of the facts that you have stated—as to the nature and 
quantity of the poison?” 

“There can be no doubt whatever. The analysis was 
made in my presence by Professor Woodford, of St. 
Margaret’s Hospital, after I had removed the tissues 
from the body in his presence. He has not been called 
because, in accordance with the procedure under Coro- 
ner’s Law, I am responsible for the analysis and the 
conclusions drawn from it.” 

“Taking the medical facts as known to you, are you 
able to form an opinion as to what took place when the 
poison was administered ?”’ 

“That,” the witness replied, “is a matter of inference 
or conjecture. I infer that the person who administered 
the poison thrust the needle violently into the back of the 
deceased, intending to inject the poison into the chest. 
Actually, the needle struck a rib and bent up sharply, 
so that the contents of the syringe were delivered just 
under the skin. Then I take it that the assailant ran 
away—probably towards the pond—and deceased pur- 
sued him. Very soon the poison would take effect, and 
then deceased would have fallen. He may have fallen 
into the pond, or more probably, was thrown in. He 
was alive when he fell into the pond, as is proved by the 
presence of water in the lungs; but he must then have 
been insensible, and in a dying condition, for there was 
no water in the stomach, which proves that the swallow- 
ing reflex had already ceased.”’ 

“Your considered opinion, then, based on the medical 
facts ascertained by you, is, I understand, that deceased 
died from the effects of a poison injected into his body 
by some other person with homicidal intent?” 


40 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


“Yes; that is my considered opinion, and I affirm that 
the facts do not admit of any other interpretation.” 

The coroner looked towards the jury. “Do any of 
you gentlemen wish to ask the witness any questions?” 
he inquired; and when the foreman had replied that the 
jury were entirely satisfied with the doctor’s explana- 
tions, he thanked the witness, who thereupon retired. 
The medical witness was succeeded by the inspector, who 
made a short statement respecting the effects found on 
the person of deceased. They comprised a small sum of 
money—under two pounds—a watch, keys, and other 
articles, none of them of any appreciable value, but, 
such as they were, furnishing evidence that at least petty 
robbery had not been the object of the attack. 

When the last witness had been heard, the coroner 
glanced at his notes and then proceeded to address the 
jury. 

“There is little, gentlemen,’ he began, “that I need 
say to you. The facts are before you, and they seem 
to admit of only one interpretation. JI remind you that, 
by the terms of your oath, your finding must be ‘accord- 
ing to the evidence.’ Now the medical evidence is quite 
clear and definite. It is to the effect that deceased met 
his death by poison, administered violently by some other 
person: that is by homicide. Homicide is the killing of 
a human being, and it may or may not be criminal. But 
if the homicidal act is done with the intent to kill; if 
that intention has been deliberately formed—that is to 
say, if the homicidal act has been premeditated; then that 
homicide is wilful murder. 

“Now the person who killed the deceased came to the 
place where the act was done provided with a solution of / 


THE DOCTOR'S REVELATIONS 41 


a very powerful and uncommon vegetable poison. He 
was also provided with a very special appliance—to wit, 
a hypodermic syringe—for injecting it into the body. 
The fact that he was furnished with the poison and the 
appliance creates a strong enough presumption that he 
came to this place with the deliberate intention of killing 
the deceased. That is to say, this fact constitutes strong 
evidence of premeditation. 

“As to the motive for this act, we are completely in 
the dark; nor have we any evidence pointing to the iden- 
tity of the person who committed that act. But a cor- 
oner’s inquest is not necessarily concerned with motives, 
nor is it our business to fix the act on any particular 
person. We have to find how and by what means the 
deceased met his death; and for that purpose we have 
clear and sufficient evidence. I need say no more, but 
will leave you to agree upon your finding.” 

There was a brief interval of silence when the coroner 
had finished speaking. The jury whispered together for 
a few seconds; then the foreman announced that they 
had agreed upon their verdict. 

“And what is your decision, gentlemen?” the cor- 
oner asked. 

“We find,” was the reply, “that deceased met his death 
by wilful murder, committed by some person unknown.” 

The coroner bowed. “I am in entire agreement with 
you, gentlemen,” said he. “No other verdict was pos- 
sible, and I am sure you will join me in the hope that 
the wretch who committed this dastardly crime may be 
identified and in due course brought to justice.” 

This brought the proceedings to an end. As the Court 
rose the spectators filed out of the building and the cor- 


42 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


oner approached Miss D’Arblay to express once more 
his deep sympathy with her in her tragic bereavement. | 
stood apart with Miss Boler, whose rugged face was wet 
with tears, but set in a grim and wrathful scowl. 

“Things have taken a terrible turn,’ I ventured to 
observe. 

She shook her head and uttered a sort of low growl. 
“It won’t bear thinking of,” she said gruffly. ‘There 
is no possible retribution that would meet the case. One 
has thought that some of the old punishments were cruel 
and barbarous, but if I could lay my hands on the villain 
that did this ”” She broke off, leaving the conclusion 
to my imagination, and in an extraordinarily different 
voice said: “Come, Miss Marion, let us get out of this 
awful place.” 

As we walked away slowly and in silence, I looked at 
Miss D’Arblay, not without anxiety. She was very 
pale, and the dazed expression that her face had borne 
on the fatal day of the discovery had, to some extent, 
reappeared. But now the signs of bewilderment and 
grief were mingled with something new. The rigid face, 
the compressed lips, and lowered brows spoke of a deep 
and abiding wrath. 

Suddenly she turned to me and said, abruptly, almost 
harshly : ; 

“T was wrong in what I said to you before the inquiry. 
You remember that I said that the circumstances of the 
loss could make no difference; but they make a whole 
world of difference. I had supposed that my dear father 
had died as he had thought he would die; that it was 
the course of Nature, which we cannot rebel against. 
Now I know, from what the doctor said, that he might 





THE DOCTOR'S REVELATIONS 43 


have lived on happily for the full span of human life but 
for the malice of this unknown wretch. His life was 
not lost; it was stolen—from him and from me.” 

“Yes,” I said somewhat lamely. “It is a horrible 
affair.” 

“Tt is beyond bearing!’ she exclaimed. “If his death 
had been natural, I would have triéd to resign myself 
to it. I would have tried to put my grief away. But 
to think that his happy, useful life has been snatched 
from him—that he has been torn from us who loved 
him by the deliberate act of this murderer—it is un- 
endurable. It will be with me every hour of my life 
until I die. And every hour I shall call on God for 
justice against this wretch.” 

I looked at her with a sort of admiring surprise. A 
quiet, gentle girl as I believed her to be at ordinary 
times, now, with her flushed cheeks, her flashing eyes 
and ominous brows, she reminded’ me of one of the 
heroines of the French Revolution. Her grief seemed 
to be merged in a longing for vengeance. 

While she had been speaking Miss Boler had kept up 
a running accompaniment in a deep, humming bass. I 
could not catch the words—if there were any—but was 
aware only of a low, continuous bourdon. She now said 
with grim decision: 

“God will not let him escape. He shall pay the debt 
to the uttermost farthing.” Then, with sudden fierce- 
ness, she added: “If I should ever meet with him I could 
kill him with my own hand.” 

After this both women relapsed into silence, which I 
was loth to interrupt. The circumstances were too tragic 
for conversation. When we reached their gate Miss 


44 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


D’Arblay held out her hand and once again thanked me 
for my help and sympathy. 

“T have done nothing,’ said I, “that any stranger 
would not have done, and I deserve no thanks. But I 
should like to think that you will look on me as a friend, 
and if you should need any help will let me have the 
privilege of being of use to you.” 

“T look on you as a friend already,” she replied; “‘and 
I hope you will come and see us sometimes—when we 
have settled down to our new conditions of life.” 

As Miss Boler seemed to confirm this invitation, I 
thanked them both and took my leave, glad to think that 
I had now a recognized status as a friend and might 
pursue a project which had formed in my mind even 
before we had left the court-house. 

The evidence of the murder, which had fallen like a 
thunderbolt on us all, had a special significance for me; 
for I knew that Dr. Thorndyke was behind this discovery, 
though to what extent I could not judge. The medical 
witness was an obviously capable man, and it might be 
that he would have made the discovery without assistance. 
But a needle-puncture in the back is a very inconspicuous 
thing.’ Ninety-nine doctors in a hundred would almost 
certainly have overlooked it, especially in the case of a 
body apparently “found drowned,” and seeming to call 
for no special examination beyond the search for gross 
injuries. The revelation was very characteristic of 
Thorndyke’s methods and principles. It illustrated in a 
most striking manner the truth which he was never tired 
of insisting on: that it is never safe to accept obvious 
appearances, and that every case, no matter how ap- 
parently simple and commonplace, should be approached 


fae VOCLOR'S. REVELATIONS 45 


with suspicion and scepticism and subjected to the most 
rigorous scrutiny. That was precisely what had been 
done in this case; and thereby an obvious suicide had 
been resolved into a cunningly planned and skilfully 
executed murder. It was quite possible that, but for my 
visit to Thorndyke, those cunning plans would have suc- 
ceeded and the murderer have secured the cover of a 
verdict of “Death by misadventure” or “Suicide while 
temporarily insane.” At any rate, the results had justi- 
fied me in invoking Dr. Thorndyke’s aid; and the ques- 
tion now arose whether it would be possible to retain 
him for the further investigation of the case. 

This was the project that had occurred to me as I 
listened to the evidence and realized how completely the 
unknown murderer had covered up his tracks. But there 
were difficulties. Thorndyke might consider such an in- 
vestigation outside his province. Again, the costs in- 
volved might be on a scale entirely beyond my means. 
The only thing to be done was to call on Thorndyke and 
hear what he had to say on the subject, and this I deter- 
mined to do on the first opportunity. And having formed 
this resolution, I made my way back by the shortest route 
to Mecklenburgh-square, where the evening consultations 
were now nearly due. 


CHAPTER IV 
MR. BENDELOW 


THERE are certain districts in London the appearance 
of which conveys to the observer the impression that the 
houses, and indeed, the entire streets, have been picked 
up second-hand. There is in this aspect a grey, colourless, 
mouldy quality, reminiscent, not of the antique shop, but 
rather of the marine store dealers; a quality which even 
communicates itself to the inhabitants, so that one gathers 
the impression that the whole neighbourhood was taken 
as a going concern. 

It was on such a district that I found myself looking 
down from the top of an omnibus a few days after the 
inquest (Dr. Cornish’s brougham being at the moment 
under repairs and his horse “out to grass” during the 
slack season), being bound for a street in the neighbour- 
hood of Hoxton—Market-street by name—which abutted, 
as I had noticed when making out my route, on the 
Regent’s Canal. The said route I had written out, and 
now, in the intervals of my surveys of the unlovely pros- 
pect, I divided my attention between it and the note 
which had summoned me to these remote regions. 

Concerning the latter 1 was somewhat curious, for the 
envelope was addressed, not to Dr. Cornish, but to “Dr. 
Stephen Gray.” This was really quite an odd circum- 
stance. Either the writer knew me personally or was 
aware that I was acting as locum tenens for Cornish. 

46 


MR. BENDELOW 47 


But the name—James Morris—was unknown to me, and 
a careful inspection of the index of the ledger had failed 
to bring to light any one answering to the description. 
So Mr. Morris was presumably a stranger to my principal 
also. The note, which had been left by hand in the morn- 
ing, requested me to call “as early in the forenoon as 
possible,” which seemed to hint at some degree of 
urgency. Naturally, as a young practitioner, I speculated 
with interest, not entirely unmingled with anxiety, on 
the possible nature of the case, and also on the patient’s 
reasons for selecting a medical attendant whose residence 
was so inconveniently far away. 

In accordance with my written route, I got off the 
omnibus at the corner of Shepherdess-walk, and pursuing 
that pastoral thoroughfare for some distance, presently 
plunged into a labyrinth of streets adjoining it and suc- 
ceeded most effectually in losing myself. However, in- 
quiries addressed to an intelligent fish-vendor elicited a 
most lucid direction and I soon found myself in a little, 
drab street which justified its name by giving accom- 
modation to a row of stationary barrows loaded with 
what looked like the “throw-outs” from a colossal spring 
clean. Passing along this herb-side market and reflecting 
(like Diogenes, in similar circumstances) how many 
things there were in the world that I did not want, I 
walked slowly up the street looking for Number 23— 
my patient’s number—and the canal which I had seen 
on the map. I located them both at the same instant, 
for Number 23 turned out to be the last house on the 
opposite side, and a few yards beyond it the street was 
barred by a low wall, over which, as I looked, the mast 
of a sailing-barge came into view and slowly crept past. 


48 THE D'ARBLAY MYSTERY 


I stepped up to the wall and looked over. Immediately 
beneath me was the towing-path, alongside which the 
barge was now bringing up and beginning to lower her 
mast, apparently in order to pass under a bridge that 
spanned the canal some two hundred yards farther along. 

From these nautical manceuvres I transferred my at- 
tention to my patient’s house—or, at least, so much of it 
as I could see; for Number 23 appeared to consist of a 
shop with nothing over it. There was, however, in a 
wall which extended to the canal wall a side door with 
a bell and knocker, so I inferred that the house was behind 
the shop, and that the latter had been built on a formerly 
existing front garden. The shop itself was somewhat 
reminiscent of the stalls down the street, for though the 
fascia was newly painted (with the inscription “J. Morris, 
General Dealer”) the stock-in-trade exhibited in the 
window was in the last stage of senile decay. It included, 
I remember, a cracked Toby jug, a mariner’s sextant of 
an obsolete type, a Dutch clock without hands, a snuff- 
box, one or two plaster statuettes, an invalid punch-bowl, 
a shiny, dark, and: inscrutable oil painting and a plaster 
mask, presumably the death mask of some celebrity whose 
face was unknown to me, 

My examination of this collection was brought to a 
sudden end by the apparition of a face above the half- 
blind of glazed shop-door; the face of a middle-aged 
woman who seemed to be inspecting me with malevolent 
interest. Assuming—rather too late—a brisk, profes- 
sional manner, I opened the shop door, thereby setting 
a bell jangling within, and confronted the owner of the 
face. 


MR. BENDELOW 49 


“IT am Dr. Gray,’ I began to explain. 

“Side door,” she interrupted brusquely. ‘Ring the bell 
and knock.”’ 

I backed out hastily and proceeded to follow the direc- 
tions, giving a tug at the bell and delivering a flourish 
on the knocker, The hollow reverberations of the latter 
almost suggested an empty house, but my vigorous pull 
at the bell-handle produced no audible result, from which 
I inferred—wrongly, as afterwards appeared—that it was 
out of repair. After waiting quite a considerable time, 
I was about to repeat the performance when I heard 
sounds within; and then the door was opened, to my sur- 
- prise, by the identical sour-faced woman whom I had seen 
in the shop. As her appearance and manner did not 
invite conversation, and she uttered no word, I followed 
her in silence through a long passage, or covered way, 
which ran parallel to the side of the shop and presumably 
crossed the site of the garden. It ended at a door which 
opened into the hall proper; a largish square space into 
which the doors of the ground-floor rooms opened. It 
contained the main staircase and was closed in at the 
farther end by a heavy curtain which extended from wall 
to wall. 

We proceeded in this funereal manner up the stairs 
to the first floor on the landing of which my conductress 
halted and for the first time broke the silence. 

“You will probably find Mr. Bendelow asleep or doz- 
ing,” she said in a rather gruff voice. “If he is, there is 
no need for you to disturb him.” 

“Mr. Bendelow!” I exclaimed. “I understood that his 
name was Morris.” 


50 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


“Well, it isn’t,” she retorted. “It is Bendelow. My 
name is Morris and so is my husband’s. It was he who 
wrote to you.” 

_ “By the way,” said I, “how did he know my name? 
I am acting for Dr. Cornish, you know.” 

“T didn’t know,” said she, “‘and I don’t suppose he did. 
Probably the servant told him. But it doesn’t matter. 
Here you are, and-you will do as well as another. I was 
telling you about Mr. Bendelow. He is in a pretty bad 
way. The specialist whom Mr. Morris took him to— 
Dr. Artemus Cropper—said he had cancer of the bi-lorus, 
whatever that is " 

“Pylorus,” I corrected 

“Well, pylorus, then, if you prefer it,” she said im- 
patiently. “At any rate, whatever it is, he’s got cancer 
of it; and, as I said before, he is in a pretty bad way. 
Dr. Cropper told us what to do, and we are doing it. 
He wrote out full directions as to diet—I will show them 
to you presently—and he said that Mr. Bendelow was to 
have a dose of morphia if he complained of pain—which 
he does, of course; and that, as there was no chance of 
his getting better, it didn’t matter how much morphia he 
had. The great thing was to keep him out of pain. So 
we give it to him twice a day—at least, my husband 
does—and that keeps him fairly comfortable. In fact, 
he sleeps most of the time, and is probably dozing now; 
so you are not likely to get much out of him, especially 
as he is rather hard of hearing even when he is awake. 
And now you had better come in and have a look at him.” 

She advanced to the door of a room and opened it 
softly, and I followed in a somewhat uncomfortable 
frame of mind. It seemed to me that I had no func- 








MR. BENDELOW St 


tion but that of a mere figure-head. Dr. Cropper, whom 
I knew by name as a physician of some reputation, had 
made the diagnosis and prescribed the treatment, neither 
of which I, as a mere beginner, would think of contest- 
ing. It was an unsatisfactory, even an ignominious, posi- 
tion from which my professional pride revolted. But 
apparently it had to be accepted. 

Mr. Bendelow was a most remarkable-looking man. 
Probably he had always been somewhat peculiar in ap- 
pearance; but now the frightful emaciation (which 
strongly confirmed Cropper’s diagnosis) had so accen- 
tuated his original peculiarities that he had the appear- 
ance of some dreadful, mitrthless caricature. Under the 
influence of the remorseless disease, every structure which 
was capable of shrinking had shrunk to the vanishing- 
point, leaving the unshrinkable skeleton jutting out with 
a most horrible and grotesque effect. His great hooked 
nose, which must always have been strikingly prominent, 
stuck out now, thin and sharp, like the beak of some bird 
of prey. His heavy, beetling brows, which must always 
have given to his face a frowning sullenness, now over- 
hung sockets which had shrunk away into mere caverns. 
His naturally high cheek-bones were now not only promi- 
nent, but exhibited the details of their structure as one 
sees them in a dry skull. Altogether, his aspect was at 
once pitiable and forbidding. Of his age I could form 
no estimate. He might have been a hundred. The 
wonder was that he was still alive; that there was yet 
left in that shrivelled body enough material to enable 
its mechanism to continue its functions, 

He was not asleep, but was in that somnolent, lethargic 
state that is characteristic of the effects of morphia. He 


52 THE D’ARBLAY (Myst eae 


took no notice of me when I approached the bed, nor even 
when I spoke his name somewhat loudly. © 

“IT told you you wouldn’t get much out of him,” said 
Mrs. Morris, looking at me with a sort of grim satis- 
faction. “He doesn’t have a great deal to say to any of 
us nowadays.” 

“Well,” said I, “there is no need to rouse him, but I 
had better just examine him, if only as a matter of form. 
I can’t take the case entirely on hearsay.” 

“T suppose not,” she agreed. “You know best. Do 
what you think necessary, but don’t disturb him more 
than you can help.” 

It was not a prolonged examination. The first touch 
of my fingers on the shrunken abdomen made me aware 
of the unmistakable hard mass and rendered further ex- 
ploration needless, There could be no doubt as to the 
nature of the case or of what the future held in store. 
It was only a question of time, and a short time at that. 

The patient submitted to the examination quite pas- 
sively, but he seemed 'to be fully aware of what was going 
on, for he looked at me in a sort of drunken, dreamy 
fashion, but without any sign of interest in my proceed- 
ings. When I had finished, I looked him over again, 
trying to reconstitute him as he might have been before 
this deadly disease fastened on him. I observed that he 
seemed to have a fair crop of hair of a darkish iron-grey. 
I say “seemed,” because the greater part of his head was 
covered by a skull cap of black silk; but a fringe of hair 
straying from under it on to the forehead suggested that 
he was not bald. His teeth, too, which were rather con- 
spicuous, were natural teeth and in good preservation. 
In order to verify this fact, I stooped and raised his lip 


6] 


MR. BENDELOW 53 


the better to examine them. But at this point Mrs. 
Morris intervened. 

“There, that will do,” she said impatiently. “You are 
not a dentist, and his teeth will last as long as he will 
want them. If you have finished you had better come 
with me and I will show you Dr. Cropper’s prescriptions. 
Then you can teil me if you have any further directions 
to give.” 

She led the way out of the room, and when I had made 
a farewell gesture to the patient (of which he took no 
notice) I followed her down the stairs to the ground 
floor where she ushered me into a small, rather elegantly 
furnished room. Here she opened the flap of a bureau 
and from one of the little drawers took an open envelope 
which she handed to me. It contained one or two pre- 
scriptions for occasional medicines, and a sheet of direc- 
tions relative to the diet and general management of the 
patient, including the administration of morphia. The 
latter read, under the general heading, “Simon Bendelow, 
Esq.”’: 

“As the case progresses, it will probably be necessary 
to administer morphine regularly, but the amount given 
should, if possible, be restricted to %4 gr. Morph. Sulph., 
not more than twice a day; but, of course, the hopeless 
prognosis and probable early termination of the case make 
some latitude admissible.” 

Although I was in complete agreement with the writer, 
I was a little puzzled by these documents. They were 
signed “Artemus Cropper, M.D.,” but they were not ad- 
dressed to any person by name. They appeared to have 
been given to Mr. Morris, in whose possession they now 
were; but the use of the word “morphine” instead of the 


54 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


more familiar “morphia’’ and the generally technical 
phraseology seemed inappropriate to directions addressed 
to lay persons. As I returned them I remarked: 

“These directions read as if they had been intended 
for the information of a medical man.” 

“They were,” she replied. “They were meant for the 
doctor who was attending Mr. Bendelow at the time. 
When we moved to this place I got them from him to 
show to the new doctor. You are the new doctor.” 

“Then you haven’t been here very long?” 

“No,” she replied. “We have only just moved in. 
And that reminds me that our stock of morphia is running 
out. Could you bring a fresh tube of the tabloids next 
time you call? My husband left an empty tube for me 
to give you to remind you what size the tabloids are. 
He gives Mr. Sy decay the injections.” 

“Thank you,” said I, “but I don’t want the ates tube. 
I read the prescription and shan’t forget the dose. I will 
bring a new tube to-morrow—that is, if you want me to 
call every day. It seems hardly necessary.” 

“No, it doesn’t,” she agreed. “I should think twice a 
week would be quite enough. Monday and Thursday 
would suit me best; if you could manage to come about 
this time I should be sure to be in. My time is rather 
taken up, as I haven’t a servant at present.” 

It was a bad arrangement. Fixed appointments are 
things to avoid in medical practice. Nevertheless I agreed 
to it—subject to unforeseen obstacles—and was forth- 
with conducted back along the covered way and launched 
into the outer world with a farewell which it would be 
inadequate to describe as unemotional. 

As I turned away from the door I cast a passing glance 





MR. BENDELOW 55 


at the shop window; and once again I perceived a face 
above the half-blind. It was a man’s face this time; 
presumably the face of Mr. Morris. And, like his wife, 
he seemed to be “taking stock of me.” I returned the 
attention, and carried away with me the instantaneous 
mental photograph of a man in that unprepossessing 
transitional state between being clean-shaved and wearing 
a beard which is characterized by a sort of grubby prick- 
liness that disfigures the features without obscuring them. 
His stubble was barely a week old, but as his complexion 
and hair were dark, the effect was very untidy and dis- 
reputable. And yet, as I have said, it did not obscure the 
features. I was even able, in that momentary glance, to 
note a detail which would probably have escaped a non- 
medical eye: the scar of a hare-lip which had been very 
neatly and skilfully mended, and which a moustache would 
probably have concealed altogether. 

I did not, however, give much thought to Mr. Morris. 
It was his dour-faced wife, with her gruff, over-bearing 
manner who principally occupied my reflections. She 
_ seemed to have divined in some way that I was but a 
beginner—perhaps my youthful appearance gave her the 
hint—and to have treated me with almost open contempt. 
In truth my position was not a very dignified one. The 
diagnosis of the case had been made for me, the treat- 
ment had been prescribed for me, and was being carried 
out by other hands than mine. My function was to sup- 
port a kind of legal fiction that I was conducting the case, 
but principally to supply the morphia (which a chemist 
might have refused to do), and when the time came, to 
sign the death certificate. It was an ignominious role 
for a young and ambitious practitioner, and my pride was 


56 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


disposed to boggle at it. But yet there was nothing to 
which I could object. The diagnosis was undoubtedly 
correct, and the treatment and management of the case 
exactly such as I should have prescribed. Finally I de- 
cided that my dissatisfaction was principally due to the 
unattractive personality of Mrs. Morris; and with this 
conclusion I dismissed the case from my mind and let 
my thoughts wander into more agreeable channels. 


ee 


CHAPTER V 
INSPECTOR FOLLETT’S DISCOVERY 


To a man whose mind is working actively, walking 
is a more acceptable mode of progression than riding in 
a vehicle. There is a sort of reciprocity between the 
muscles and the brain—possibly due to the close asso- 
ciation of the motor and psychical centres—whereby the 
activity of the one appears to act as a stimulus to the 
other, A sharp walk sets the mind working, and, con- 
versely, a state of lively reflection begets an impulse to 
bodily movement. 

Hence, when I had emerged from Market-street and 
set my face homewards, I let the omnibuses rumble past 
unheeded. I knew my way now. I had but to retrace 
the route by which I had come, and, preserving my isola- 
tion amidst the changing crowd, let my thoughts keep 
pace with my feet. And I had, in fact, a good deal to 
think about; a general subject for reflection which ar- 
ranged itself around two personalities, Miss D’Arblay and 
Dr. Thorndyke. — 

To the former I had written suggesting a call on her, 
“subject to the exigencies of the service,” on Sunday 
afternoon, and had received a short but cordial note 
definitely inviting me to tea. So that matter was settled, 
and really required no further consideration, though it 
did actually occupy my thoughts for an appreciable part 
of my walk. But that was mere self-indulgence: the pre- 

57 


58 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


liminary savouring of an anticipated pleasure. My cogi- 
tations respecting Dr. Thorndyke were, on the other hand, 
somewhat troubled. I was eager to invoke his aid in 
solving the hideous mystery which his acuteness had (I 
felt convinced) brought into view. But it would prob- 
ably be a costly business, and my pecuniary resources 
were not great. To apply to him for services of which I 
could not meet the cost was not to be thought of. The 
too-common meanness of sponging on a professional man 
was totally abhorrent to me. 

But what was the alternative? The murder of Julius 
D’Arblay was one of those crimes which offer the police 
no opportunity; at least, so it seemed to me. Out of the 
darkness this fiend had stolen to commit this unspeakable 
atrocity, and into the darkness he had straightway van- 
ished, leaving no trace of his identity nor any hint of his 
diabolical motive. It might well be that he had vanished 
for ever; that the mystery of the crime was beyond solu- 
tion. But if any solution was possible, the one man who 
seemed capable of discovering it was John Thorndyke. 

This conclusion, to which my reflections led again and 
again, committed me to the dilemma that either this vil- 
lain must be allowed to go his way unmolested, if the 
police could find no clue to his identity—a position that 
I utterly refused to accept; or that the one supremely 
skilful investigator should be induced, if possible, to 
take up the inquiry. In the end I decided to call on 
Thorndyke and frankly lay the facts before him, but to 
postpone the interview until I had seen Miss D’Arblay 
and ascertained what view the police took of the case, 
and whether any new facts had transpired. 

The train of reflection which brought me to this con- 





INSPECTOR FOLLETT’S DISCOVERY 59 


clusion had brought me also, by way of Pentonville, to 
the more familiar neighbourhood of Clerkenwell, and I 
had just turned into a somewhat squalid by-street, which 
seemed to bear in the right direction, when my attention 
was arrested by a brass plate affixed to the door of one 
of those hybrid establishments, intermediate between a 
shop and a private house, known by the generic name of 
“Open Surgery.” The name upon the plate—‘‘Dr. Solo- 
mon Usher’”—awakened certain reminiscences. In my 
freshman days there had been a student of that name at 
our hospital; a middle-aged man (elderly, we considered 
him, seeing that he was near upon forty), who, after 
years of servitude as an unqualified assistant, had scraped 
together the means of completing his curriculum. [I re- 
membered him very well: a facetious, seedy, slightly bibu- 
lous but entirely good-natured man, invincibly amiable 
(as he had need to be), and always in the best of spirits. 
I recalled the quaint figure that furnished such rich ma- 
terial for our schoolboy wit; the solemn spectacles, the 
ridiculous side-whiskers, the chimney-pot hat, the formal 
frock-coat (too often decorated with a label secretly 
pinned to the coat-tail, and bearing some such inscription 
as ““This style 10/6,” or other scintillations of freshman 
humour), and, looking over the establishment, decided 
that it seemed to present a complete congruity with that 
well-remembered personality. But the identification was 
not left to mere surmise, for even as my eye roamed along 
a range of stoppered bottles that peeped over the wire 
blind, the door opened and there he was, spectacles, side- 
whiskers, top-hat, and frock-coat, all complete, plus an 
cedematous-looking umbrella. 

He did not recognize me at first—naturally, for I had 


60 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


changed a good deal more than he had in the five or six 
years that had slipped away—but inquired gravely if I 
wished to see him. I replied that it had been the dearest 
wish of my heart, now at length gratified. Then, as I 
grinned in his face, my identity suddenly dawned on him. 

“Why, it’s Gray!” he exclaimed, seizing my hand. 
“God bless me, what a surprise! I didn’t know you. 
Getting quite a man. Well, I am delighted to see you. 
Come in and have a drink.” 

He held the door open invitingly, but I shook my head. 

“No, thanks,’ I replied. ‘Not at this time in the 
day.” 

“Nonsense,” he urged. “Do you good. I’ve just had 
one myself. Can’t say more than that, excepting that I 
am ready to have another. Won't you really? Pity. 
Should never waste an opportunity. Which way are you 
going?” 

- It seemed that we were going the same way for some 
distance and we accordingly set off together. 

“So you've flopped out of the nest,” he remarked, 
looking me over, “at least so I judge by the adult clothes 
that you are wearing. Are you in practice in these 
parts?” 

“No,” I replied, “I am doing a locum. Only just quali- 
fied, you know.” 

“Good,” said he. “A locum’s the way to begin. Try 
your ’prentice hand on somebody else’s patients and pick 
up the art of general practice, which they don’t teach you 
at the hospital.” 

“You mean bookkeeping and dispensing and the gen- 
eral routine of the day’s work?” I suggested. 

‘No, I don’t,” he replied. “I mean practice; the art 


fyoreC1OR FOLLETT’S DISCOVERY 61 


of pleasing your patients and keeping your end up. 
You've got a lot to learn, my boy. Experientia does it. 
Scientific stuff is all very well at the hospital, but in 
practice it is experience, gumption, tact, knowledge of 
human nature, that counts.” 

“T suppose a little knowledge of diagnosis and treat- 
ment is useful?’ I suggested. 

“For your own satisfaction, yes,” he admitted, “but 
for practical purposes a little knowledge of men and 
women is a good deal better. It isn’t your scientific 
learning that brings you kudos, nor is it out-of-the-way 
cases. It is just common sense brought to bear on com- 
mon ailments. Take the case of an aurist. You think 
that he lives by dealing with obscure and difficult middle 
and internal ear cases. Nothing of the kind. He lives on 
wax. Wax is the foundation of his practice. Patient 
comes to him as deaf as a post. He does all the proper 
jugglery—tuning-fork, otoscope, speculum, and so on, 
for the moral effect. Then he hikes out a good old plug 
of cerumen, and the patient hears perfectly. Of course, 
he is delighted. Thinks a miracle has been performed. 
Goes away convinced that the aurist is a genius; and so 
he is if he has managed the case properly. I made my 
reputation here on a fish-bone.” 

“Well, a fish-bone isn’t always so very easy to extract,” 
said I. 

“Tt isn’t,” he agreed. “Especially if it isn’t there.” 

“What do you mean?” I asked. 

“Tl tell you about it,” he replied. “‘A chappie here 
got a fish-bone stuck in his throat. Of course, it didn’t 
stay there. They never do. But the prick in his soft 
palate did, and he was convinced that the bone was still 


62 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


there. So he sent for a doctor. Doctor came, looked 
in his throat. Couldn’t see any fish-bone, and, like a fool, 
said so. Tried to persuade the patient that there was no 
bone there. But the chappie said it was his throat and he 
knew better. He could feel it there. So he sent for 
another doctor and the same thing happened. No go. 
He had four different doctors and they hadn’t the sense 
of an infant among them. Then he sent for me. 

“Now, as soon as I heard how the land lay, I nipped 
into the surgery and got a fish-bone that I keep there in 
a pill-box for emergencies, stuck it into the jaws of a pair 
of throat forceps, and off I went. “Show me where- 
abouts it is,’ says I, handing him a probe to point with. 
He showed me the spot and nearly swallowed the probe. 
‘All right,’ said I. ‘I can see it. Just shut your eyes and 
open your mouth wide and I will have it out in a jiffy.’ 
I popped the forceps into his mouth, gave a gentle prod 
with the point on the soft palate; patient hollered out, 
‘Hoo!’ I whisked out the forceps and held them up be- 
fore his eyes with the fish-bone grasped in their jaws. 

““Hal says he. “Thank Gawd! What a relief! I 
can swallow quite well now.’ And so he could. It was 
a case of suggestion and counter-suggestion. Imaginary 
fish-bone cured by imaginary extraction. And it made my 
local reputation. Well, good-bye, old chap. Ive got a 
visit to make here. Come in one evening and smoke a 
pipe with me. You know where to find me. And take 
my advice to heart. Never go to extract a fish-bone with- 
out one in your pocket; and it isn’t a bad thing to keep 
a dried earwig by you. I do. People will persist in 
thinking they’ve got one in their ears. So long. Look 
me up soon,” and with a farewell flourish of the umbrella, 





INSPECTOR FOLLETT’S DISCOVERY 63 


he turned to a shabby street door and began to work the 
top bell-pull as if it were the handle of an air-pump. 

I went on my way, not a little amused by my friend’s 
genial cynicism, nor entirely uninstructed. For “there is 
a soul of truth in things erroneous,’ as the philosopher 
reminds us; and if the precepts of Solomon Usher did not 
sound the highest note of professional ethics, they were 
based on a very solid foundation of worldly wisdom, 

When, having finished my short round of visits, I ar- 
rived at my temporary home, I was informed by the 
housemaid in a mysterious whisper that a police officer 
was waiting to see me. “Name of Follett,” she added. 
“He’s waiting in the consulting-room.”’ 

Proceeding thither, I found my friend, the Highgate 
inspector, with one eye closed, standing before a card 
of test-types that hung on the wall. We greeted one 
another cordially and then, as I looked at him inquir- 
ingly, he produced from his pocket without remark an 
official envelope from which he extracted a coin, a silver 
pencil-case and a button. These objects he laid on the 
writing-table and silently directed my attention to them. 
A little puzzled by his manner I picked up the coin and 
examined it attentively. It was a Charles the Second 
guinea dated 1663, very clean and bright and in remark- 
ably perfect preservation. But I could not see that it was 
-any concern of mine. 

“It is a beautiful coin,” I remarked; ‘“‘but what 
about it?” 

“Tt doesn’t belong to you, then?” he asked. 

“No. I wish it did.” 

“Have you ever seen it before?” 

“Never, to my knowledge.” 


64. THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


“What about the pencil-case ?” 

I picked it up and turned it over in my fingers. “No,” 
I said; “it is not mine and I have no recollection of ever 
having seen it before.” 

“And the button?” 

“Tt is apparently a waistcoat button,” I said after 
having ‘inspected it, “apparently belonging to a tweed 
waistcoat; and judging by the appearance of the thread 
and the wisp of cloth that it still holds, it must have been 
pulled off with some violence, But it isn’t off my waist- 
coat, if that is what you want to know.” | 

“T didn’t much think it was,” he replied, “but I thought 
it best to make sure. And it didn’t come from poor Mr. 
D’Arblay’s waistcoat, because I have examined that and 
there is no button missing. I showed these things to Miss 
D’Arblay, and she is sure that none of them belonged to 
her father. He never used a pencil-case—artists don’t, 
as a rule—and as to the guinea, she knew nothing about 
it. If it was her father’s, he must have come by it 
immediately before his death; otherwise she felt sure 
he would have shown it to her, seeing that they were 
both interested in anything in the nature of sculpture.” 

“Where did you get these things?” I asked, 

“From the pond in the wood,” he replied. “I will tell 
you how I came to find them—that is, if I am not taking 
up too much of your time.” 

“Not at all,” I assured him; and even as I spoke I 
thought of Solomon Usher. He wouldn’t have said that. 
He would have anxiously consulted his engagement-book 
to see how many minutes he could spare. However, In- 
spector Follett was not a patient, and I wanted to hear his 


“CS eee 


INSPECTOR FOLLETT’S DISCOVERY 65 


story. So having established him in the easy-chair, I sat 
down to listen. 

“The morning after the inquest,’ he began, “an officer 
of the C.I.D. came up to get particulars of the case and 
see what was to be done. Well, as soon as I had told 
him all I knew and shown him our copy of the deposi- 
tions, it was pretty clear to me that he didn’t think there 
was anything to be done but wait for some fresh evidence. 
Mind you, Doctor, this is in strict confidence.” 

“T understand that. But if the Criminal Investigation 
Department doesn’t investigate crime, what the deuce is 
the good of it?” 

“That is hardly a fair way of putting it,’ he protested. 
‘The people at Scotland Yard have got their hands pretty 
full, and they can’t spend their time in speculating about 
cases in which there is no evidence. They can’t create 
evidence; and you can see for yourself that there isn’t 
the ghost of a clue to the identity of the man who com- 
mitted this murder. But they are keeping the case in 
mind, and meanwhile we have got to report any new 
facts that may turn up. Those were our instructions, 
and when I heard them I decided to do a bit of investi- 
gating on my own, with the Superintendent’s permission, 
of course. 

“Well, I began by searching the wood thoroughly, but 
I got nothing out of that excepting Mr. D’Arblay’s hat, 
which I found in the undergrowth not far from the main 
path. 

“Then I thought of dragging the pond; but I decided 
that, as it was only a small pond and shallow, it would 
be best to empty it and expose the bottom completely. So 


66 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


I dammed up the little stream that feeds it, and deepened 
the outflow, and very soon I had it quite empty excepting 
a few small puddles. And I think it was well worth the 
trouble. These things don’t tell us much, but they may 
be useful one day for identification. And they do tell us 
something. They suggest that this man was a collector 
of coins; and they make it fairly clear that there was a 
struggle in the pond before Mr, D’Arblay fell down.” 

“That is, assuming that the things belonged to the 
murderer,’ I interposed. “There is no evidence that they 
did.”’ 

“No, there isn’t,” he admitted; “but if you consider 
the three things together they suggest a very strong proba- 
bility. Here is a waistcoat button violently pulled off, 
and here are two things such as would be carried in a 
waistcoat pocket and might fall out if the waistcoat were 
dragged at violently when the wearer was stooping over 
a fallen man and struggling to avoid being pulled down 
with him. And then there is this coin. Its face value 
is a guinea, but it must be worth a good deal more than 
that. Do you suppose anybody would leave a thing of 
that kind in a shallow pond, from which it could be easily 
recovered with a common landing-net? Why, it would 
have paid to have had the pond dragged or even emptied. 
But, as I say, that wouldn’t have been necessary.” 

“T am inclined to think you are right, Inspector,” said 
I, rather impressed by the way in which he had reasoned 
the matter out; “but even so, it doesn’t seem to me that 
we are much more forward. The things don’t point to 
any particular person.” 

“Not at present,” he rejoined. “But a fact is a fact, 
and you can never tell in advance what you may get out — 





INSPECTOR FOLLETT’S DISCOVERY 67 


of it. If we should get a hint of any other kind pointing 
to some particular person, these things might furnish in- 
valuable evidence connecting that person with the crime. 
They may even give a clue now to the people at the 
C.1.D., though that isn’t very likely.” ; 

“Then you are going to hand them over to the Scotland 
Yard people ?” 

“Certainly. The C.I.D. are the lions, you know. I’m 
only a jackal.” 

I was rather sorry to hear this, for the idea had floated 
into my mind that I should have liked Thorndyke to see 
these waifs, which, could they have spoken, would have 
had so much to tell. To me they conveyed nothing that 
threw any light on the ghastly events of that night of 
horror. But to my teacher, with his vast experience and 
his wonderful power of analyzing evidence they might 
convey some quite important significance. 

I reflected rapidly on the matter. It would not be wise 
to say anything to the inspector about Thorndyke, and it 
was quite certain that a loan of the articles would not be 
entertained. Probably a description of them would be 
enough for the purpose; but still I had a feeling that an 
inspection of them would be better. Suddenly I had a 
bright idea, and proceeded cautiously to broach it. 

“I should rather like to have a record of these things,” 
said I; “particularly of the coin. Would you object to 
my taking an impression of it in sealing-wax?” 

Inspector Follett looked doubtful. “It would be a bit 
irregular,” he said. “It is a bit irregular for me to have 
shown it to you, but you are interested in the case, and 
you are a responsible person. What did you want the 
impression for?” 


68 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


“Well,” I said, “‘we don’t know much about that coin. 
I thought I might be able to pick up some further infor- 
mation. Of course, I understand that what you have told 
me is strictly confidential. I shouldn’t go showing the 
thing about, or talking. But I should like to have the 
impression to refer to if necessary.” 

“Very well,” said he. “On that understanding, I have 
no objection.’ But see that you don’t leave any wax on 
the coin, or the C.I.D. people will be asking questions.” 

With this permission, I set about the business glee- 
fully, determined to get as good an impression as possible. 
From the surgery I fetched an ointment slab, a spirit 
lamp, a stick of sealing-wax, a teaspoon, some powder- 
papers, a bowl of water, and a jar of vaseline. Laying 
a paper on the slab, I put the coin on it and traced its 
outline with a pencil. Then I broke off a piece of sealing- 
wax, melted it in the teaspoon, and poured it out carefully 
into the marked circle so that it formed a round, convex 
button of the right size. While the wax was cooling to 
the proper consistency, I smeared the coin with vaseline, 
and wiped the excess off with my handkerchief. Then 
I carefully laid it on the stiffening wax and made steady 
pressure. After a few moments I cautiously lifted the 
paper and dropped it into the water, leaving it to cool 
completely. When, finally, I turned it over under water, 
the coin dropped away by its own weight. 

“It is a beautiful impression,” the inspector remarked, 
as he examined it with the aid of my pocket lens, while 
I prepared to operate on the reverse of the coin. “As 
good as the original. You seem rather a dab at this 
sort of thing, Doctor. I wonder if you would mind doing 
another pair for me?” 


Pyor eC LOR POLLETT’S DISCOVERY 69 


Of course, I complied gladly; and when the inspector 
departed a few minutes later he took with him a couple 
of excellent wax impressions to console him for the neces- 
sity of parting with the original. 

As soon as he was gone I proceeded to execute a plan 
that had already formed in my mind. First I packed the 
two wax impressions very carefully in lint and bestowed 
them in a tin tobacco-box, which I made up into a neat 
parcel and addressed it to Dr. Thorndyke. Then I wrote 
him a short letter giving him the substance of my talk 
with Inspector Follett and asking for an appointment 
early in the following week to discuss the situation with 
him. I did not suppose that the wax impressions would 
convey, even to him, anything that would throw fresh 
light on this extraordinarily obscure crime. But one 
never knew. And the mere finding of the coin might 
suggest to him some significance that I had overlooked. 
In any case, the new incident gave me an excuse for 
reopening the matter with him. 

I did not trust the precious missives to the maid, but 
as soon as the letter was written I took it and the parcel 
in my own hands to the post, dropping the letter into 
the box but giving the parcel the added security of regis- 
tration. This business being thus despatched, my mind 
was free to occupy itself with pleasurable anticipations 
of the projected visit to Highgate on the morrow and to 
deal with whatever exigencies might arise in the course 
of the Saturday evening consultations. 


CHAPTER VI 
MARION D’ARBLAY AT HOME 


Most of us have, I imagine, been conscious at times of 
certain misgivings as to whether the Progress of which 
we hear so much has done for us all that it is assumed 
to have done; whether the undoubted gain of advancing . 
knowledge has not a somewhat heavy counterpoise of 
loss. We moderns are accustomed to look upon a world 
filled with objects that would have made our forefathers 
gasp with admiring astonishment; and we are accordingly 
a little puffed up by our superiority. But the museums 
and galleries and ancient buildings sometimes tell a dif- 
ferent tale. By them we are made aware that these same 
“rude forefathers” were endowed with certain powers 
and aptitudes that seem to be denied to the present 
generation. 

Some such reflections as these passed through my mind 
as I sauntered about the ancient village of Highgate, 
having arrived in the neighbourhood nearly an hour too 
early. Very delightful the old village was to look upon, 
and so it had been, even when the mellow red brick was 
new and the plaster on the timber houses was but freshly 
laid; when the great elms were saplings and the stage- 
wagon with its procession of horses rumbled along the 
road which now resounds to the thunder of the electric 
tram. It was not Time that had made beautiful its 
charming old houses and pleasant streets and closes, but 
fine workmanship guided by unerring taste. 

70 





MARION D’ARBLAY AT HOME he 


At four o’clock precisely, by the chime of the church 
clock, I pushed open the gate of Ivy Cottage, and as I 
walked up the flagged path, read the date, 1709, on a 
stone tablet let into the brickwork. I had no occasion 
to knock, for my approach had been observed, and as I 
mounted the threshold the door opened and Miss 
D’Arblay stood in the opening. 

“Miss Boler saw you coming up the Grove,” she ex- 
plained, as we shook hands. “It is surprising how much 
of the outer world you can see from a bay window. It 
is as good as a watch tower.” She disposed of my hat 
and stick, and then preceded me into the room to which 
the window appertained, where, beside a bright fire, Miss 
Boler was at the moment occupied with a brilliantly 
burnished copper kettle and a silver teapot. She greeted 
me with an affable smile, and as much of a bow as was 
possible under the circumstances, and then proceeded to 
make the tea with an expression of deep concentration. 

“T do like punctual people,” she remarked, placing the 
teapot on a carved wooden stand. “You know where 
you are with them. At the very moment when you 
turned the corner, Sir, Miss Marion finished buttering 
the last muffin and the kettle boiled over. So you won't 
have to wait a moment.” 

Miss D’Arblay laughed softly. “You speak as if Dr. 
Gray had staggered into the house in a famished condi- 
tion, roaring for food,” said she. 

“Well,” retorted Miss Boler, “you said ‘tea at four 
o'clock,’ and at four o’clock the tea was ready and Dr. 
Gray was here. If he hadn’t been he would have had to 
eat leathery muffins, that’s all.” 

“Horrible!” exclaimed Miss D’Arblay. “One doesn’t 


99 


72 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


like to think of it; and there is no need to, as it hasn’t 
happened. Remember that this is a gate-legged table, 
Dr. Gray, when you sit down. They are delightfully pic- 
turesque, but exceedingly bad for the knees of the 
unwary.” 

I thanked her for the warning, and took my seat with 
due caution. Then Miss Boler poured out the tea and 
uncovered the muffins with the grave and attentive air 
of one performing some ceremonial rite. 

As the homely, simple meal proceeded, to an accom- 
paniment of desultory conversation on every-day topics, 
I found myself looking at the two women with a certain 
ill-defined surprise. Both were garbed in unobtrusive 
black, and both, in moments of repose, looked somewhat 
tired and worn. But in their manner and the subjects 
of their conversation, they were astonishingly ordinary 
and normal. No stranger, looking at them and listen- 
ing to their talk, would have dreamed of the tragedy that 
overshadowed their lives. But so it constantly happens. 
We go into a house of mourning, and are almost 
scandalized by its cheerfulness, forgetting that whereas 
to us the bereavement is the one salient fact, to the be- 
reaved there is the necessity of taking up afresh the 
threads of their lives. Food must be prepared even while 
the corpse lies under the roof, and the common daily 
round of duty stands still for no human affliction. 

But, as I have said, in the pauses of the conversation, 
when their faces were in repose, both women looked 
strained and tired. Especially was this so in the case of 
Miss D’Arblay. She was not only pale, but she had a 
nervous, shaken manner which I did not like. And as 
I looked anxiously at the delicate, pallid face, I noticed, — 





MARION D’ARBLAY AT HOME 73 


not for the first time, several linear scratches on the cheek 
and a small cut on the temple. 

“What have you been doing to yourself?” I asked. 
“You look as if you had had a fall.” 

“She has,” said Miss Boler in an indignant tone. “It 
is a marvel that she is here to tell the tale. The wretches!’ 

I looked at Miss D’Arblay in consternation. ‘‘What 
wretches?” I asked. 

“Ah! indeed!” growled Miss Boler. ‘I wish I knew. 
Tell him about it, Miss Marion.”’ 

“It was really rather a terrifying experience,” said 
Miss D’Arblay; “and most mysterious. You know 
Southwood Lane and the long, steep hill at the bottom 
of it?’ I nodded, and she continued: “I have been going 
down to the studio every day on my bicycle, just to tidy 
up, and, of course, I went by Southwood Lane. It is 
really the only way. But I always put on the brake at 
the top of the hill and go down quite slowly because 
of the crossroads at the bottom. Well, three days ago I 
started as usual and ran down the Lane pretty fast until 
I got on the hill, Then I put on the brake; and I could 
feel at once that it wasn’t working.” 

“Has your bicycle only one brake?” I asked. 

“Tt had. JI am having a second one fixed now. Well, 
when I found that the brake wasn’t acting, I was terrified. 
I was already going too fast to jump off, and the speed 
increased every moment. I simply flew down the hill, 
faster and faster with the wind whistling about my ears 
and the trees and the houses whirling past like express 
trains, Of course, I could do nothing but steer straight 
down the hill; but at the bottom there was the Archway 

Road with the trams and ’buses and wagons. I knew 


74 THE D’ARBLAY MY¥S2E Re 


4 


that if a tram crossed the bottom of the Lane as I reached 
the road, it was practically certain death. I was horribly 
frightened. 

“However, mercifully the Archway Road was clear 
when I flew across it, and I steered to run on down 
Muswell Hill Road, which is nearly in a line with the 
lane. But suddenly I saw a steam roller and a heavy 
cart, side by side and taking up the whole of the road. 
There was no room to pass. The only possible thing 
was to swerve round, if I could, into Wood-lane. And 
I just managed it. But Wood-lane is pretty steep, and 
I flew down it faster than ever. That nearly broke down 
my nerve; for at the bottom of the lane is the wood— 
the horrible wood that I can never even think of without 
a shudder. And there I seemed to be rushing towards 
it to my death.” 

She paused and drew a deep breath, and her hand 
shook so that the cup which it held rattled in the saucer. 

“Well,” she continued, “down the Lane I flew with my 
heart in my mouth and the entrance to the wood rushing 
to meet me. I could see that the opening in the hurdles 
was just wide enough for me to pass through, and I 
steered for it. I whizzed through into the wood and the 
bicycle went bounding down the steep, rough path at a 
fearful pace until it came to a sharp turn; and then I ~ 
don’t quite know what happened. There was a crash of | 
snapping branches and a violent shock, but I must have a 
been partly stunned, for the next thing that I remember ~ 
is opening my eyes and looking stupidly at a lady who 
was stooping over me. She had seen me fly down the 
Lane, and had followed me into the wood to see bie 
happened to me. ey 





MARION D’ARBLAY AT HOME 70 


kindly took me to her house and cared for me until I was 
quite recovered ; and then she saw me home and wheeled 
the bicycle.” 

“It is a wonder you were not killed outright!’ I 
exclaimed. 

“Yes,” she agreed; “it was a narrow escape. But the 
odd thing is that, with the exception of these scratches 
and a few slight bruises, I was not hurt at all; only very 
much shaken. And the bicycle was not damaged a bit.” 

“By the way,” said I, “what had happened to the 
brake ?”’ 

“Ah!” exclaimed Miss Boler; “there you are. The 
villains!” 

Miss D’Arblay laughed softly. “Ferocious Arabella!’ 
said she. “But it is really a most mysterious affair. 
Naturally, I thought that the wire of the brake had 
el goes But it hadn’t. It had been cut.” 

“Are you quite sure of that?” I asked. 

“Oh, there is no doubt at all,” she replied. ‘The man 
at the repair shop showed it to me. It wasn’t merely 
cut in one place. A length of it had been cut right out. 
And I can tell within a few minutes when it was done, 
for I had been riding the machine in the morning and I 
know the brake was all right then. But I left it fora 
few minutes outside the gate while I went into the house 
to change my shoes, and when I came out, I started on 
my adventurous journey. In those few minutes some one 
must have come along and just snipped the wire through 
in two places and taken away the piece.” 

“Scoundrel!’’ muttered Miss Boler; and I agreed with 
her most cordially. 

“Tt was an infamous thing to do,’’ I exclaimed, “and 


: ke i bed ‘ 
ees Cty) eee: 

hy ets hn ay ¥ 

1h ee pays {rhs 


76 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


the act of an abject fool. I suppose you have no idea 
or suspicion as to who the idiot might be?” 

“Not the slightest,” Miss D’Arblay replied. “I can’t 
even guess at the kind of person who would do such a 
thing. Boys are sometimes very mischievous, but this 
is hardly like a boy’s mischief.”’ 

“No,” I agreed, “it is more like the mischief of a 
mentally defective adult; the sort of half-baked larrykin 
who sets fire to a rick if he gets the chance.” 

Miss Boler sniffed. ‘‘Looks to me more like deliberate 
malice,” said she. 

“Mischievous acts usually do,” I rejoined; “but yet 
they are mostly the outcome of stupidity that is indifferent 
to consequences.” 

“And it is of no use arguing about it,’ said Miss 
D’Arblay, “because we don’t know who did it or why 
he did it, and we have no means of finding out. But I 
shall have two brakes in future, and I shall test them 
both every time I take the machine out.” 

“T hope you will,” said Miss Boler; and this closed 
the topic so far as conversation went, though I suspect 
that, in the interval of silence that followed, we all 
continued to pursue it in our thoughts. And to all of 
us, doubtless, the mention of Church-yard Bottom Wood 
had awakened memories of that fatal morning when the 
pool gave up its dead. No reference to the tragedy had 
yet been made, but it was inevitable that the thoughts 
which were at the back of all our minds should sooner 
or later come to the surface. They were, in fact, brought 
there by me, though unintentionally; for, as I sat at the 
table, my eyes had strayed more than once to a bust—or 
rather a head, for there were no shoulders—which occu- 


MARION D’ARBLAY AT HOME ra | 


pied the centre of the mantelpiece. It was apparently of 
lead, and was a portrait, and a very good one, of Miss 
D’Arblay’s father. At the first glance I had recognized 
the face which I had first seen through the water of the 
pool. Miss D’Arblay, who was sitting facing it, caught 
my glance, and said: “You are looking at that head of 
my dear father. I suppose you recognized it?” 

“Yes, instantly. I should take it to be an excellent 
likeness.” 

“It is,’ she replied; “and that is something of an 
achievement in a self-portrait in the round.” 

“Then he modelled it himself?” 

“Yes, with the aid of one or two photographs and a 
couple of mirrors. I helped him by taking the dimensions 
with callipers and drawing out a scale. Then he made 
a wax cast and a fireproof mould, and we cast it together 
in type-metal, as we had no means of melting bronze. 
Poor Daddy! How proud he was when we broke away 
the mould and found the casting quite perfect!” 

She sighed as she gazed fondly on the beloved features, 
and her eyes filled. Then, after a brief silence, she turned 
to me and asked: 

“Did Inspector Follett call on you? He said he was 
going to.” 

“Yes, he called yesterday to show me the things that he 
had found in the pond. Of course, they were not mine, 
and he seemed to have no doubt—and I think he is right— 
that they belonged to the—to the ( 

“Murderer,”’ said Miss Boler. 

“Yes. He seemed to think that they might furnish 
some kind of clue, but I am afraid he had nothing very 





78 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


clear in his mind. I suppose that coin suggested nothing 
to your” 

Miss D’Arblay shook her head. “Nothing,” she re- 
plied. ‘As it is an ancient coin, the man may be a 
collector or a dealer - 

“Or a forger,” interposed Miss Boler. 

“Or a forger. But no such person is known to us. 
And even that is mere guesswork.’ 

“Your father was not interested in coins, then?” 

“As a sculptor, yes, and more especially in medals and 
plaquettes. But not as a collector. He had no desire 
to possess; only to create. And so far as I know, he 
was not acquainted with any collectors. So this dis- 
covery of the inspector’s, so far from solving the mys- 
tery, only adds a fresh problem.” 

She reflected for a few moments with knitted pees 
then, turning to me quickly, she asked: 

“Did the inspector take you into his confidence at all? 
He was very reticent to me, though most kind and sym- 
pathetic. But do you think that he, or the others, are 
taking any active measures?” 

“My impression,” I answered reluctantly, “is that the 
police are not in a position to do anything. The truth 
is that this villain seems to have got away without leav- 
ing a trace.” 

“That is what I feared,” she sighed. Then with sud- 
den passion, though in a quiet, suppressed voice, she 
exclaimed: “But he must not escape! It would be too 
hideous an injustice. Nothing can bring back my dear 
father from the grave; but if there is a God of Justice, 
this murderous wretch must be called to account and 
made to pay the penalty of his crime.” 








MARION D’ARBLAY AT HOME 79 


“He must,’’ Miss Boler assented in deep, ominous tones, 
“and he shall; though God knows how it is to be done.” 

“For the present,” said I, “there is nothing to be done 
but to wait and see if the police are able to obtain any 
fresh information ; and meanwhile to turn over every cir- 
cumstance that you can think of; to recall the way your 
father spent his time, the people he knew, and the possi- 
bility in each case that some cause of enmity may have 
arisen.” 

“That is what I have done,” said Miss D’Arblay. 
“Ievery night I lie awake, thinking, thinking; but nothing 
comes of it. The thing is incomprehensible. This man 
must have been a deadly enemy of my father’s. He must 
have hated him with the most intense hatred, or he must 
have had some strong reason other than mere hatred for 
making away with him. But I cannot imagine any person 
hating my father, and I certainly have no knowledge of 
any such person, nor can I conceive of any reason that 
any human creature could have had for wishing for my 
father’s death. I cannot begin to understand the meaning 
of what has happened.” 

“But yet,” said I, “there must be a meaning. This 
man—unless he was a lunatic, which he apparently was 
not—must have had a motive for committing the murder. 
That motive must have had some background, some con- 
nexion with circumstances of which somebody has knowl- 
edge. Sooner or later those circumstances will almost 
certainly come to light, and then the motive for the 
murder will come into view. But once the motive is 
known, it should not be difficult to discover who could 
be influenced by such a motive. Let us, for the present, 
be patient and see how events shape, but let us also keep 


80 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


a constant watch for any glimmer of light, for any fact 
that may bear on either the motive or the person.” 

The two women looked at me earnestly and with an 
expression of respectful confidence, of which I knew 
myself to be wholly undeserving. 

“Tt gives me new courage,’ said Miss D’Arblay, “to 
hear you speak in that reasonable, confident tone. I was 
in despair, but I feel that you are right. There must 
be some explanation of this awful thing; and if there is, 
it must be possible to discover it. But we ought not to 
put the burden of our troubles on you, though you have 
been so kind.” 

“You have done me the honour,” said I, “to allow me 
to consider myself your friend. Surely friends should- 
help to bear one another’s burdens.” 

“Yes,” she replied, “in reason; and you have given 
most generous help already. But we must not put too 
much on you. When my father was alive, he was my 
great interest and chief concern. Now that he is gone, 
the great purpose of my life is to find the wretch who 
murdered him and to see that justice is done. That is all 
that seems to matter to me. But it is my own affair. I 
ought not to involve my friends in it.” 

“T can’t admit that,” said I. “The foundation of 
friendship is sympathy and service. If I am your friend, 
then what matters to you matters to me; and I may say 
that in the very moment when I first knew that your 
father had been murdered, I made the resolve to devote 
myself to the discovery and punishment of his murderer 
by any means that lay in my power. So you must count 
me as your ally as well as your friend.” 

As I made this declaration—to an accompaniment of 





MARION D’ARBLAY AT HOME 81 


approving growls from Miss Boler—Marion D’Arblay 
gave me one quick glance and then looked down; and 
once more, her eyes filled. For a few moments she made 
no reply; and when, at length, she spoke, her voice 
trembled. 

_ You leave me nothing to say,” she murmured, “but 
to thank you from my heart. But you little know what 
it means to us, who felt so helpless, to know that we have 
a friend so much wiser and stronger than ourselves.” 

I was a little abashed, knowing my own weakness and 
helplessness, to find her putting so much reliance on me. 
However, there was Thorndyke in the background; and 
now I was resolved that, if the thing was in any way 
to be compassed, his help must be secured without delay. 

A longish pause followed, and as it seemed to me that 
there was nothing more to say on this subject until I 
had seen Thorndyke, I ventured to open a fresh topic. 

“What will happen to your father’s practice?” I asked. 
“Will you be able to get any one to carry it on for you?” 

“I am glad you asked that,” said Miss D’Arblay, “be- 
cause, now that you are our counsellor we can take your 
opinion, I have already talked the matter over with 
Arabella—with Miss Boler.” 

“There’s no need to stand on ceremony,” the latter lady 
interposed. “Arabella is good enough for me.” 

“Arabella is good enough for any one,” said Miss 
D’Arblay. “Well, the position is this. The part of my 
father’s practice that was concerned with original work— 
pottery figures and reliefs and models for goldsmith’s 
work—will have to go. No one but a sculptor of his 
own class could carry that on. But the wax figures for 
the shop windows are different. When he first started, 


82 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


he used to model the heads and limbs in clay and make 
plaster casts from which to make the gelatine moulds 
for the wax-work. But as time went on, these casts ac- 
cumulated and he very seldom had need to model fresh 
heads or limbs. The old casts could be used over and 
over again. Now there is a large collection of plaster 
models in the studio—heads, arms, legs, and faces, espe- 
cially faces—and as I have a fair knowledge of the wax- 
work, from watching my father and sometimes helping 
him, it seemed that I might be able to carry on that part 
of the practice.” 

“You think you could make the wax figures yourself?” 
I asked. 

“Of course she could,” exclaimed Miss Boler. “She’s 
her father’s daughter. Julius D’Arblay was a man who 
could do anything he turned his hand to and do it well. 
And Miss Marion is just like him. She is quite a good 
modeller—so her father said; and she wouldn’t have to 
make the figures. Only the wax parts.” 

“Then they are not wax all over?” said I. 

“No,” answered Miss D’Arblay. “They are just dum- 
mies; wooden frameworks covered with stuffed canvas, 
with wax heads, busts, and arms, and shaped legs. That 
was what poor Daddy used to hate about them. He would 
have liked to model complete figures.” 

“And as to the business side. Could you dispose of 
them ?” 

“Yes, if I could do them satisfactorily. The agent 
who dealt with my father’s work has already written to 
me asking if I could carry on, I know he will help me 
so far as he can. He was quite fond of my father.” 


MARION D’ARBLAY AT HOME 83 


“And you have nothing else in view?” 

“Nothing by which I could earn a real living. For the 
last year or two I have worked at writing and illumi- 
nating; addresses, testimonials, and church services, when 
I could get them, and filled in the time writing special 
window-tickets. But that isn’t very remunerative, 
whereas the wax figures would yield quite a good living. 
And then,” she added, after a pause, “I have the feeling 
that Daddy would have liked me to carry on his work, 
and I should like it myself. He taught me quite a lot 
and I think he meant me to join him when he got old.” 

As she had evidently made up her mind, and as her 
decision seemed quite a wise one, I concurred with as 
much enthusiasm as I could muster. | 

“I am glad you agree,” said she, “and I know Arabella 
does. So that is settled, subject to my being able to 
carry out the plan. And now, if we have finished, I 
should like to show you some of my father’s works. The 
house is full of them and so, even, is the garden. Per- 
haps we had better go there first before the light fails.” 

As the treasures of this singularly interesting home 
were presented, one after another, for my inspection, I 
began to realize the truth of Miss Boler’s statement. 
Julius D’Arblay had been a remarkably versatile man. 
He had worked in all sorts of mediums and in all equally 
well. From the carved stone sundial and the leaden 
garden figures to the clock-case decorated with gilded 
gesso and enriched with delicate bronze plaquettes, all 
his works were -eloquent of masterly skill and a fresh, 
graceful fancy. It seems to me little short of a tragedy 
that an artist of his ability should have spent the greater 


84 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


part of his time in fabricating those absurd, posturing 
effigies that simper and smirk so grotesquely in the enor- 
mous windows of Vanity Fair. 

I had intended, in compliance with the polite conven-— 
tions, to make this, my first visit, a rather short one; but 
a tentative movement to depart only elicited protests, and 
I was easily persuaded to stay until the exigencies of Dr. 
Cornish’s practice seemed to call me. When at last I shut 
the gate of Ivy Cottage behind me and glanced back at 
the two figures standing in the lighted doorway, I had 
the feeling of turning away from a house with which, and 
its inmates, I had been familiar for years. 

On my arrival at Mecklenburgh-square I found a note 
which had been left by hand earlier in the evening. It 
was from Dr. Thorndyke, asking me, if possible, to lunch 
with him at his chambers on the morrow. I looked over 
my visiting list, and finding that Monday would be a 
light day—most of ‘my days here were light days—I 
wrote a short letter accepting the invitation and posted 
it forthwith. 





CHAPTER VII 
ENLARGING THORNDYKE’S KNOWLEDGE 


“T am glad you were able to come,” said Thorndyke, 
as we took our places at the table. “Your letter was a - 
shade ambiguous. You spoke of discussing the D’Arblay 
case, but I think you had something more than discussion 
in your mind.” 

“You are quite right,” I replied. “TI had in my mind 
to ask if it would be possible for me to retain you—I 
believe that is the correct expression—to investigate the 
case, as the police seem to think there is nothing to go 
on; and if the costs would be likely to be within my 
means.” 

“As to the costs,” said he, ‘“‘we can dismiss them. I 
- see no reason to suppose that there would be any costs.” 

“But your time, Sir ” I began. 

He laughed derisively. ‘Do you propose to pay me 
for indulging in my pet hobby? No, my dear fellow, 
it is I who should pay you for bringing a most inter- 
esting and intriguing case to my notice. So your ques- 
tions are answered. I shall be delighted to look into 
this case, and there will be no costs unless we have to 
pay for some special services. If we do, I will let you 
know.” 

I was about to utter a protest, but he continued: 

“And now, having disposed of the preliminaries, let 


us consider the case itself. Your very shrewd and 
85 





86 THE D’ARBLAY MYS Pere 


capable inspector believes that the Scotland Yard people 
will take no active measures unless some new facts turn 
up. I have no doubt he is right, and I think they are 
right, too. They can’t spend a lot of time—which means 
public money—on a case in which hardly any data are 
available, and which holds out no promise of any result. 
But we mustn’t forget that we are in the same boat. 
Our chances of success are infinitesimal. This investi- 
gation is a forlorn hope. That, I may say, is what com- 
mends it to me; but I want you to understand clearly 
that failure is what we have to expect.” 

“T understand that,” I answered gloomily, but never- 
theless rather disappointed at this pessimistic view. 
“There seems to be nothing whatever to go upon.” 

“Oh, it isn’t so bad as that,” he rejoined. “Let us just 
tun over the data that we have. Our object is to fix the 
identity of the man who killed Julius D’Arblay. Let us 
see what we know about him. We will begin with the 
evidence at the inquest. From that we learned: 1. That 
he is a man of some education, ingenious, subtle, resource- 
ful. This murder was planned with extraordinary in- 
genuity and foresight. The body was found in the pond 
with no telltale mark on it but an almost invisible pin- 
prick in the back. The chances were a thousand to one, 
or more, against that tiny puncture ever being observed; 
and if it had not been observed, the verdict would have 
been ‘Found drowned,’ or ‘Found dead,’ and the fact of 
the murder would never have been discovered. 

“2. We also learn that he has some knowledge of 
poisons. The common, vulgar, poisoner is reduced to fly- 
papers, weed-killer, or rat-poison—arsenic or strychnine. 
But this man selects the most suitable of all poisons for his 


att, \ . ~ his 4 
: ier be 
Mh te ona 
5 tags 


FNLARGING THORNDYKE’S KNOWLEDGE 87 


purpose, and administers it in the most effective manner ; 
with a hypodermic syringe. 

_ “3. We learned further that he must have had some 
extraordinarily strong reason for making away with 
D’Arblay. He made most elaborate plans, he took end- 
less trouble—for instance, it must have been no easy 
matter to get possession of that quantity of aconitine 

(unless he were a doctor, which God forbid!). That 
strong reason—the motive, in fact—is the key of the 
problem. It is the murderer’s one vulnerable point, for 
it can hardly be beyond discovery; and its discovery must 
be our principal objective.” 

_I nodded, not without some self-congratulation as I 
recalled how I had made this very point in my talk with 
Miss D’Arblay. 

“Those,” Thorndyke continued, “are the data that the 
inquest furnished. Now we come to those added by 
Inspector Follett.” 

“I don’t see that they help us at all,” said I. “The 
ancient coin was a curious find, but it doesn’t appear to 
tell us anything new excepting that this man may have 
been a collector or a dealer. On the other hand, he may 
not. It doesn’t seem to me that the coin has any 
significance.” 

“Doesn’t it really?’ said Thorndyke, as he refilled my 
glass. “You are surely overlooking the very curious 
coincidence that it presents.”’ 

“What coincidence is that?’ I asked, in some surprise. 

“The coincidence,” he replied, “that both the murderer 
and the victim should be, to a certain extent, connected 
with a particular form of activity. Here is a man who 
commits a murder and who, at the time of committing it 


88 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


appears to have been in possession of a coin, which is not 
a current coin, but a collector’s piece; and behold! the 
murdered man is a sculptor—a man who, presumably, 
was capable of making a coin, or at least the working 
model.” 

“There is no evidence,” I objected, “‘that D’Arblay was 
capable of cutting a die. He was not a die sinker.” 

“There was no need for him to be,’ Thorndyke re- 
joined. “Formerly, the medallist who designed the coin 
cut the die himself. But that is not the modern practice. 
Nowadays, the designer makes the model, first in wax — 
and then in plaster, on a comparatively large scale. The 
model of a shilling may be three inches or more in 
diameter. The actual die-sinking is done by a copying 
machine which produces a die of the required size by 
mechanical reduction. I think there could be no doubt 
that D’Arblay could have modelled the design for a coin 
on the usual scale, say three or four inches in diameter.”’ 

“Yes,” I agreed, “he certainly could, for I have seen 
some of his small relief work; some little plaquettes, not 
more than two inches long and most delicately and beau- 
tifully modelled. But still, I don’t see the connexion, 
otherwise than as a rather odd coincidence.” 

“There may be nothing more,” said he. “There may 
be nothing in it at all. But odd coincidences should 
always be noted with very special attention.” 

“Yes, I realize that. But I can’t imagine what sig- 
nificance there could be in the coincidence.” 

“Well,”’ said Thorndyke, “let us take an imaginary 
case, just as an illustration. Suppose this man to have 
been a fraudulent dealer in antiquities; and suppose him 
to have obtained enlarged photographs of a medal or coin 





ENLARGING THORNDYKE’S KNOWLEDGE 89 


of extreme rarity and of great value, which was in some 
museum or private collection. Suppose him to have taken 
the photographs to D’Arblay and commissioned him to 
model from them a pair of exact replicas in hardened 
plaster. From those plaster models he could, with a 
copying machine, produce a pair of dies with which he 
could strike replicas in the proper metal and of the exact 
size ; and these could be sold for large sums to judiciously 
chosen collectors.” 

“I don’t believe D’Arblay would have accepted such a 
commission,” I exclaimed indignantly. 

“We may assume that he would not, if the fraudulent 
intent had been known to him. But it would not have 
been; and there is no reason why he should have refused 
a commission merely to make a copy. Still, I am not 
suggesting that anything of the kind really happened. I 
am simply giving you an illustration of one of the in- 
numerable ways in which a perfectly honest sculptor 
might be made use of by a fraudulent dealer, In that 
case his honesty would be a source of danger to him; 
for if a really great fraud were perpetrated by means of 
his work, it would clearly be to the interest of the per- 
petrator to get rid of him. An honest and unconscious 
collaborator in a crime is apt to be a dangerous witness 
if questions arise.” 

I was a good deal impressed by this demonstration. 
Here, it seemed to me, was something very like a tangible 
clue. But at this point Thorndyke again applied a cold 
douche. — 

“Still,” he said, “we are only dealing with generalities, 
and rather speculative ones. Our assumptions are sub- 
ject to all sorts of qualifications. It is possible, for in- 


90 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


stance, though very improbable, that D’Arblay may have 
been murdered in error by a perfect stranger; that he 
may have walked into an ambush prepared for some one 
else. Again, the coin may not have belonged to the mur- 
derer at all, though that is also most improbable. But 
there are numerous possibilities of error; and we can 
eliminate them only by following up each suggested clue 
and seeking verification or disproof. Every new fact 
that we learn is a multiple gain. For as money makes 
money, so knowledge begets knowledge.” 

“That is very true,’ I answered dejectedly—for it 
sounded rather like a platitude; “but I don’t see any 
means of following up any of these clues.” 

“We are going to follow up one of them after lunch, 
if you have time,” said he. As he‘spoke, he took from 
the table drawer a paper packet and a jeweller’s leather 
case. ‘“This,” he said, handing me the packet, “contains 
your sealing-wax moulds. You had better take care of 
them and keep the box with the marked side up to prevent 
the wax from warping. Here are a pair of casts in 
hardened plaster—‘fictile ivory,’ as it is called—which my 
assistant, Polton, has made.” 

He opened the case and passed it to me, when I saw 
that it was lined with purple velvet and contained what 
looked like two old ivory replicas of the mysterious coin. 

“Mr. Polton is quite an artist,” I said, regarding them 
admiringly. “But what are you going to do with these ?”’ 

“T had intended to take them round to the British 
Museum and show them to the keeper of the coins and 
medals, or one of his colleagues. But I think I will 
just ask a few questions and hear what he says before: 





ENLARGING THORNDYKE’S KNOWLEDGE og1 


I produce the casts. Have you time to come round 
with me?” 

“T shall make time. But what do you want to know 
about the coin?” 

“Tt is just a matter of verification,’ he replied. “My 
books on the British coinage describe the Charles the 
Second guinea as having a tiny elephant under the bust 
on the obverse, to show that the gold from which it was 
minted came from the Guinea Coast.” 

“Yes,” said I, “Well, there is a little elephant under 
the bust in this coin.” 

“True,” he replied. “But this elephant has a castle on 
his back, and would ordinarily be described as an elephant 
and castle, to distinguish him from the plain elephant 
which appeared on some coins. What I want to ascertain 
is whether there were two different types of guinea. The 
books make no mention of a second variety.” 

“Surely they would have referred to it if there had 
been,” said I. 

“So I thought,” he replied; “but it is better to make 
sure than to think.” 

“I suppose it is,’ I agreed without much conviction, 
“though I don’t see that, even if there were two varieties, 
that fact would have any bearing on what we want to 
know.” 

“Neither do I,” he admitted. “But then you can never 
tell what a fact will prove until you are in possession of 
the fact. And now, as we seem to have finished, perhaps 
we had better make our way to the Museum.” 

The department of coins and medals is associated in 
my mind with an impassive-looking Chinese person in 


92 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


bronze who presides over the upper landing of the main 
staircase. In fact, we halted for a moment before him 
to exchange a final word. 

“It will probably be best,’ said Thorndyke, “to say 
nothing about this coin, or, indeed, about anything else. 
We don’t want to enter into any explanations.” 

“No,” Iagreed. “It is best to keep one’s own counsel ;” 
and with this we entered the hall, where Thorndyke led 
the way to a small door and pressed the electric bell-push. 
An attendant admitted us, and when we had signed our 
names in the visitors’ book, he ushered us into the keeper’s 
room. As we entered, a keen-faced, middle-aged man 
who was seated at a table inspected us over his spectacles, 
and, apparently recognizing Thorndyke, rose and held out 
his hand. 

“Quite a long time since I have seen you,” he remarked 
after the preliminary greetings. “I wonder what your 
quest is this time.” 

“It is a very simple one,” said Thorndyke. “I am 
going to ask if you can let me look at a Charles the 
Second guinea dated 1663.” 

“Certainly I can,’ was the reply, accompanied by an 
inquisitive glance at my friend. “It is not a rarity, you 
know.” 

He crossed the room to a large cabinet, and having run 
his eye over the multitudinous labels, drew out a small, 
very shallow drawer. With this in his hand he returned, 
and picking a coin out of its circular pit, held it out to 
Thorndyke, who took it from him, holding it delicately 
by the edge. He looked at it attentively for a few 
moments, and then silently presented the obverse for my 
inspection. Naturally my eye at once sought the little 


mv" rn LF. 
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ee Shee ee i“ : 
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ENLARGING THORNDYKE’S KNOWLEDGE 93 


elephant under the bust, and there it was; but there was 
no castle on its back. 

“Ts this the only type of guinea issued at that date?” 
Thorndyke asked. 

“The only type,” was the reply. ‘This is the first issue 
of the guinea.” 

“There was no variation or alternative form?” 

“There was a form which had no elephant under the 
bust. Only those which were minted from African gold 
bore the elephant.” 

“T notice that this coin has a plain elephant under the 
bust; but I seem to have heard of a guinea, bearing this 
date, which had an elephant and castle under the bust. 
You are sure there was no such guinea?” 

Our official friend shook his head as he took the coin 
from Thorndyke and replaced it in its cell. “As sure,” 
he replied, “as one can be of a universal negative. The 
elephant and castle did not appear until 1685.” He picked 
up the drawer and was just moving away towards the 
cabinet when there came a sudden change in his manner. 

“Wait! he exclaimed, stopping and putting down the 
drawer. “You are quite right. Only it was not an issue; 
it was a trial piece, and only a single coin was struck, I 
will tell you about it. There is a rather curious story 
hanging to that piece. 

“This guinea, as you probably know, was struck from 
dies cut by John Roettier, and was one of the first coined 
by the mill-and-screw process in place of the old hammer- 
and-pile method. Now when Roettier had finished the 
dies, a trial piece was struck; and in striking that piece 
the obverse die cracked right across, but apparently only 
at the last turn of the screw, for the trial piece was 


94 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


quite perfect. Of course, Roettier had to cut a new die; 
and for some reason he made a slight alteration. The 
first die had an elephant and castle under the bust. In 
the second one he changed this to a plain elephant. So 
your impression was, so far, correct; but the coin, if it 
still exists, is absolutely unique.” 

“Is it not known, then, what became of that trial 
piece ?”’ 

“Oh, yes—up to a point. That is the queerest part of 
the story. For a time it remained in the possession of 
the Slingsby family—Slingsby was the Master of the 
Mint when it was struck. Then it passed through the 
hands of various collectors, and finally was bought by an 
American collector named Van Zellen. Now Van Zellen 
was a millionaire, and his collection was a typical million- 
aire’s collection. It consisted entirely of things of enor- 
mous value which no ordinary man could afford, or of 
unique things of which nobody could possibly have a 
duplicate. It seems that he was a rather solitary man, 
and that he spent most of his evenings alone in his 
museum, gloating over his possessions. 

“One morning Van Zellen was found dead in the little 
study attached to the museum. That was about eighteen 
months ago. There was an empty champagne bottle on 
the table and a half-emptied glass, which smelt of bitter 
almonds, and in his pocket was an empty phial labelled 
“Hydrocyanic Acid.’ At first it was assumed that he had 
committed suicide, but when, later, the collection was 
examined, it was found that a considerable part of it was 
missing. A clean sweep had been made of the gems, 
jewels, and other portable objects of value, and, among 


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ENLARGING THORNDYKE’S KNOWLEDGE 95 


other things, this unique trial guinea had vanished. 
Surely you remember the case?” 

“Yes,” replied Thorndyke. “I do, now you mention 
it, but I never heard what was stolen. Do you happen 
to know what the later developments were?” 

“There were none. The identity of the murderer was 
never even guessed at, and not a single item of the stolen 
property has ever been traced. To this day the crime 
remains an impenetrable mystery—unless you know some- 
thing about it,” and again our friend cast an inquisitive 
glance at Thorndyke. 

“My practice,” the latter replied, “does not extend to 
the United States. Their own very efficient investigators 
seem to be able to do all that is necessary. But I am very 
much obliged to you for having given us so much of 
your time, to say nothing of this extremely interesting 
information. I shall make a note of it, for American 
crime occasionally has its repercussions on this side.” 

I secretly admired the adroit way in which Thorndyke 
had evaded the rather pointed question without making 
any actual mis-statement. But the motive for the evasion 
was not very obvious to me. I was about to put a ques- 
tion on the subject, but he anticipated it, for, as soon as 
we were outside, he remarked with a chuckle: “It is just 
as well that we didn’t begin by exhibiting the casts, We 
could hardly have sworn our friend to secrecy, seeing that 
the original is undoubtedly stolen property.” 

“But aren’t you going to draw the attention of the 
police to the fact?” _ 

“T think not,” he replied. ‘They have got the original, 
and no doubt they have a list of the stolen property. We 


96 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


must assume that they will make use of their knowledge; 
but if they don’t, it may be all the better for us. The 
police are very discreet; but they do sometimes give the 
Press more information than I should. And what is told 
to the Press is told to the,criminal.” 

“And why not?’ I asked. ‘What is the harm of his 
knowing?” | : 

“My dear Gray!” exclaimed Thorndyke. “You sur- 
prise me. Just consider the position. This man aimed 
at being entirely unsuspected. That failed. But still his 
identity is unknown, and he is probably confident that it 
will never be ascertained. Then he is, so far, off his 
guard. There is no need for him to disappear or go into 
hiding. But let him know that he is being tracked and 
he will almost certainly take fresh precautions against 
discovery. Probably he will slip away beyond our reach. 
Our aim must be to encourage in him a feeling of perfect 
security ; and that aim commits us to the strictest secrecy. 
No one must know what cards we hold or that we hold 
any; or even that we are taking a hand.” : 

“What about Miss D’Arblay?” I asked anxiously. 
“May I not tell her that you are working on her behalf?” 

He looked at me somewhat dubiously. “It would ob- 
viously be better not to,” he said, “but that might seem 
a little unfriendly and unsympathetic.” 

“It would be an immense relief to her to know that 
you are trying to help her, and I think you could trust 
her to keep your secrets.” 

“Very well,” he conceded. “But warn her very thor- 
oughly. Remember that our antagonist is hidden from 
us. Let us remain hidden from him, so far as our 
activities are concerned.” 





ENLARGING THORNDYKE’S KNOWLEDGE 97 


“T will make her promise absolute secrecy,” I agreed: 
and then, with a slight sense of anti-climax, I added: 
“But we don’t seem to have so very much to conceal. 
This curious story of the stolen coin is interesting, but 
it doesn’t appear to get us any more forward.” 

“Doesn't it?” he asked. “Now I was just congratu- 
lating mySelf on the progress that we had made; on the 
way in which we are narrowing down the field of in- 
quiry. Let us trace our progress. When you found 
the body there was no evidence as to the cause of death; 
no suspicion of any agent whatever. Then came the 
inquest, demonstrating the cause of death and bringing 
into view a person of unknown identity, but having cer- 
tain distinguishing characteristics. Then Follett’s dis- 
covery added some further characteristics and suggested 
certain possible motives for the crime. But still there 
was no hint as to the person’s identity or position in life. 
Now we have good evidence that he is a professional 
criminal of a dangerous type, that he is connected with 
another crime and with a quantity of easily identified 
stolen property. We also know that he was in America 
about eighteen months ago, and we can easily get exact 
information as to dates and locality. This man is no 
longer a mere formless shadow. He is in a definite 
category of possible persons.” 

“But,” [ objected, “the fact that he had the coin in his 
possession does not prove that he is the man who stole 
he 

“Not by itself,’ Thorndyke agreed. ‘But taken in 
conjunction with the crime, it is almost conclusive. You 
appear to be overlooking the striking similarity of the 
two crimes. Each was a violent murder committed by 


98 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERS 


means of poison; and in each case, the poison selected 
was the most suitable one for the purpose. The one, 
aconitine, was calculated to escape detection; the other, 
hydrocyanic acid—the most rapidly acting of all poisons 
—was calculated to produce almost instant death in a 
man who was probably struggling and might have raised 
an alarm. I think we are fairly justified in assuming 
that the murderer of Van Zellen was the murderer of 
D’Arblay. If that is so, we have two groups of circum- 
stances to investigate, two tracks by which to follow him; 
and, sooner or later, I feel confident, we shall be able 
to give him a name. Then if we have kept our own 
counsel, and he is unconscious of the pursuit, we shall 
be able tc lay our hands on him. But here we are at 
_the Foundling Hospital. It is time for each of us to 
get back to the routine of duty.” 





CHAPTER VIII 
SIMON BENDELOW, DECEASED 


It was near the close of my incumbency of Dr. Cor- 
nish’s practice—indeed, Cornish had returned on the 
previous evening—that my unsatisfactory attendance on 
Mr. Simon Bendelow came to an end. It had been a 
wearisome affair. In medical practice, perhaps even more 
than in most human activities, continuous effort calls for 
the sustenance of achievement. A patient who cannot 
be cured or even substantially relieved is of all patients 
the most depressing. Week after week J had made my 
fruitless visits, had watched the silent, torpid sufferer 
grow yet more shrivelled and wasted, speculating even 
a little impatiently on the possible duration of his long- 
drawn-out passage to the grave. But at last the end 
came. 3 

“Good morning, Mrs. Morris,’ I said as that grim 
female opened the door and surveyed me impassively, 
“and how is our patient to-day?” 

“He isn’t our patient any longer,” she replied. ‘‘He’s 
dead.” 

“Ha!” I exclaimed. “Well, it had to be, sooner or 
later. Poor Mr. Bendelow! When did he die?” 

“Yesterday afternoon, about five,” she answered. 

“Fm. If you had sent mea note I could have brought 
the certificate. However, I can post it to you. Shall I~ 
go up and have a look at him?” 

99 


100 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


“You can if you like,” she replied. “But the ordinary 
certificate won’t be enough in this case. He is going to 
be cremated.”’ 

“Oh, indeed!” said I, once more unpleasantly conscious 
of my inexperience. ‘What sort of certificate is required 
for cremation?” 

“Qh, all sorts of formalities have to be gone through,” 
she answered. ‘Just come into the drawing-room, and I 
will tell you what has to be done.” 

She preceded me along the passage, and I followed 
meekly, anathematizing myself for my ignorance, and my 
instructors for having sent me forth crammed with aca- 
demic knowledge, but with the practical business of my 
profession all to learn. 

“Why are you having him cremated?” I asked, as 
we entered the room and shut the door. 

“Because it is one of the provisions of his will,” she 
answered. “I may as well let you see it.” 

She opened a bureau and took from it a foolscap en- 
velope, from which she drew out a folded document. 
This she first unfolded and then re-folded, so that its 
concluding clauses were visible, and laid it on the flap 
of the bureau. Placing her finger on it, she said: “That 
is the cremation clause. You had better read it,” 

I ran my eye over the clause, which read: “I desire 
that my bee shall be cremated, and I appoint Sarah 
Elizabeth Morris, the wife of the aforesaid James Morris, 
to be the residuary legatee and sole executrix of this my 
will.” Then followed the attestation clause, underneath 
which was the shaky but characteristic signature of 
“Simon Bendelow,” and opposite this the signatures of 


the witnesses, Anne Dewsnep and Martha Bonington, 



















SIMON BENDELOW, DECEASED 101 


both described as spinsters and both of a joint address 
which was hidden by the folding of the document. 

“So much for that,” said Mrs, Morris, returning the 
will to its envelope; “and now as to the certificate. There 
is a special form for cremation which has to be signed 
by two doctors, and one of them must be a hospital 
doctor or a consultant. So I wrote off at once to Dr. 
Cropper, as he knew the patient, and I have had a tele- 
gram from him this morning saying that he will be here 
this evening at eight o’clock to examine the body and sign 
the certificate. Can you manage to meet him at that 
time?” | 

“Yes,” I replied, “fortunately I can, as Dr. Cornish is 
back.” 

“Very well,” said she; “then in that case you needn’t go 
up now. You will be able to make the examination 
together. Eight o’clock, sharp, remember.” 

With this she re-conducted me along the passage and 
—TI had almost said ejected me; but she sped the parting 
guest with a business-like directness that was perhaps 
accounted for by the presence opposite the door of one 
of those grim parcels-delivery vans in which undertakers 
distribute their wares, and from which a rough-looking 
coffin was at the moment being hoisted out by two men. 

The extraordinary promptitude of this proceeding so 
impressed me that I remarked: “They haven’t been long 
making the coffin.” 

“They didn’t have to make it,’ she replied. “TI ordered 
it a month ago. It’s no use leaving things to the last 
moment.” 

I turned away with somewhat mixed feelings. There 
was certainly a horrible efficiency about this woman. 


102 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


Executrix, indeed! Her promptness in carrying out the 
provisions of the will was positively appalling. She 
must have written to Cropper before the breath was fairly 
out of poor Bendelow’s body, but her forethought in the 
matter of the coffin fairly made my flesh creep. 

Dr. Cornish made no difficulty about taking over 
the evening consultations, in fact he had intended to do 
so in any case. Accordingly, after a rather early dinner, 
I made my way in leisurely fashion back to Hoxton, 
where, after all, I arrived fully ten minutes too soon. 
I realized my prematureness when I halted at the corner 
of Market-street to look at my watch; and as ten addi- 
tional minutes of Mrs. Morris’s society offered no allure- 
ment, I was about to turn back and fill up the time with | 
a short walk when my attention was arrested by a mast 
which had just appeared above the wall at the end of 
the street. With its black-painted truck and halyard ~ 
blocks and its long tricolour pennant, it looked like the 
mast of a Dutch schuyt or galliot, but I could hardly be- 
lieve it possible that such a craft could make its appear- 
ance in the heart of London. All agog with curiosity, I 
hurried up the street and looked over the wall at the canal 
below; and there, sure enough, she was—a big Dutch 
sloop, broad-bosomed, massive, and medizval, just such 
a craft as one may see in the pictures of old Vandervelde, 
painted when Charles the Second was king. 

I leaned on the low wall and watched her with delighted 
interest as she crawled forward slowly to her berth, bring- 
ing with her, as it seemed, a breath of the distant sea 
and the echo of the surf, murmuring on sandy beaches. 
I noted appreciatively her old-world air, her antique build, 
her gay and spotless paint, and the muslin curtains in the 





SIMON BENDELOW, DECEASED 103 


little windows of her deck-house, and was, in fact, so 
absorbed in watching her that the late Simon Bendelow 
had passed completely out of my mind. Suddenly, how- 
ever, the chiming of a clock recalled me to my present 
business. With a hasty glance at my watch I tore myself 
away reluctantly, darted across the street, and gave a 
vigorous pull at the bell. 

Dr. Cropper had not yet arrived, but the deceased had 
not been entirely neglected, for when I had spent some 
five minutes staring inquisitively about the drawing-room 
into which Mrs. Morris had shown me, that lady re- 
turned, accompanied by two other ladies, whom she in- 
troduced to me somewhat informally by the names of 
Miss Dewsnep and Miss Bonington respectively. I recog- 
nized the names as those of the two witnesses to the will 
and inspected them with furtive curiosity, though, indeed, 
they were quite unremarkable excepting as typical speci- 
mens of the genus elderly spinster. 

“Poor Mr. Bendelow!” murmured Miss Dewsnep, shak- 
ing her head and causing an artificial cherry on her bon- 
net to waggle idiotically. “How beautiful he looks in his 
coffin 1’ 

She looked at me as if for confirmation, so that I was 
fain to admit that his beauty in this new setting had not 
yet been revealed to me. © 

“So peaceful,’ she added, with another shake of her 
head, and Miss Bonington chimed in with the comment, 
“Peaceful and restful.” Then they both looked at me 
and I mumbled indistinctly that I had no doubt he did; 
the fact being that the inmates of coffins are not in general 
much addicted to boisterous activity. 

“Ah!” Miss Dewsnep resumed, “how little did I think 


104 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


when I first saw him, sitting up in bed so cheerful in that 
nice, sunny room in the house at is 

“Why not?” interrupted Mrs. Morris. “Did you think 
he was going to live for ever?” 

“No, Mrs. Morris, ma’am,” was the dignified reply, 
“T did not. No such idea ever entered my head. I know 
too well that we mortals are all born to be gathered in 
at last as the—er—as the n 

“Sparks fly upwards,” murmured Miss Bonington. 

“As the corn is gathered in at harvest time,’ Miss 
Dewsnep continued with slight emphasis. “But not to be 
cast into a burning fiery furnace. When I first saw 
him in the other house a Mf 

“TI don’t see what objection you need have to crema- 
tion,” interrupted Mrs. Morris. “It was his own choice, 
and a good one, too. Look at those great cemeteries. 
What sense is there in letting the dead occupy the space 
that is wanted for the living?” 

“Well,” said Miss Dewsnep, “I may be old-fashioned, 
but it does seem to me that a nice, quiet funeral with 
plenty of flowers and a proper, decent grave in a church- 
yard is the natural end to a human life. That is what 
I look forward to, myself.” 3 

“Then you are not likely to be disappointed,” said 
Mrs, Morris; “though I don’t quite see what satisfaction 
you expect to get out of your own funeral.” 

Miss Dewsnep made no reply, and an interval of dis- 
mal silence followed. Mrs. Morris was evidently im- 
patient of Dr. Cropper’s unpunctuality. I could see that 











she was listening intently for the sound of the bell, as 


she had been even while the conversation was in progress; 
indeed, I had been dimly conscious all the while of a sense 





SIMON BENDELOW, DECEASED 105 


of tension and anxiety on her part. She had seemed to 
me to watch her two friends with a sort of uneasiness, and 
to give a quite uncalled-for attention to their rather trivial 
utterances. 

At length her suspense was relieved by a loud ringing 
of the bell. She started up and opened the door, but she 
had barely crossed the threshold when she suddenly turned 
back and addressed me. 

“That will be Dr. Cropper. Perhaps you had better 
come out with me and meet him.” 

It struck me as an odd suggestion, but I rose without 
comment and followed her along the passage to the street 
door, which we reached just as another loud peal of the 
bell sounded in the house behind us. She flung the 
door wide open, and a small, spectacled man charged in 
and seized my hand, which he shook with violent cor- 
diality. 

“How do you do, Mr. Morris?” he exclaimed. ‘So 
sorry to keep you waiting, but | was unfortunately de- 

tained at a consultation.” 
Here Mrs. Morris sourly intervened to explain who I 
was; upon which he shook my hand again, and expressed 
his joy at making my acquaintance. He also made polite 
inquiries as to our hostess’ health, which she acknowl- 
edged grufily over her shoulder as she preceded us along 
the passage, which was now pitch-dark, and where 
Cropper dropped his hat and trod on it, finally bumping 
his head against the unseen wall in a frantic effort to 
recover it. 

When we emerged into the dimly lighted hall, I ob- 
served the two ladies peering inquisitively out of the 
_ drawing-room door. But Mrs. Morris took no notice of 


106 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


them, leading the way directly up the stairs to the room 
with which I was already familiar, It was poorly illum- 
inated by a single gas-bracket over the fireplace, but the 
light was enough to show us a coffin resting on three 
chairs, and beyond it the shadowy figure of a man whom 
I recognized as Mr. Morris. 

We crossed the room to the coffin, which was plainly 
finished with zinc fastenings, in accordance with the reg- 
ulations of the cremation authorities, and had let into 
the top what I first took to be a pane of glass, but which 
turned out to be a plate of clear celluloid. When we 
had made our salutations to Mr. Morris, Cropper and I 
looked in through the celluloid window. The yellow, 
shrunken face of the dead man, surmounted by the skull 
cap which he had always worn, looked so little changed 
that he might still have been in the drowsy, torpid state 
in which I had been accustomed to see him. He had 
always looked so like a dead man that the final transition 
was hardly noticeable. 

“TI suppose,’ said Morris, “you would like to have 
the coffin-lid taken off ?” 

“God bless my soul, yes!’ exclaimed Cropper. ‘What 
are we here for? We shall want him out of the coffin, 
too.” 

“Are you proposing to make a post-mortem?” J asked, 
observing that Dr. Cropper had brought a good-sized 
handbag. “It seems hardly necessary, as we both know 
what he died of.” 

Cropper shook his head. “That won’t do,” said he. 
“You mustn’t treat a cremation certificate as a mere 
formality. We have got to certify that we have verified 












SIMON BENDELOW, DECEASED 107 


the cause of death. Looking at a body through a win- 
dow is not verifying the cause of death, We should 
cut a pretty figure in a court of law if any question arose 
and we had to admit that we had certified without any 
examination at all. But we needn’t do much, you know. 
Just get the body out on the bed and a single small in- 
cision will settle the nature of the growth. Then every- 
thing will be regular and in order. I hope you don't 
mind, Mrs. Morris,” he added, suavely, turning to that 
lady. 

“You must do what you think necessary,” she replied, 
indifferently. “It is no affair of mine;” and with this 
she went out of the room and shut the door. 

While we had been speaking, Mr. Morris, who ap- 
parently had kept a screwdriver in readiness for the pos- 
sible contingency, had been neatly extracting the zinc 
screws and now lifted off the coffin-lid. Then the three 
of us raised the shrivelled body—it was as light as a 
child’s—and laid it on the bed. I left Cropper to do 
what he thought necessary, and while he was unpacking 
his instruments I took the opportunity to have a good 
look at Mr. Morris; for it is a singular fact that in all 
the weeks of my attendance at this house I had never 
come into contact with him since that first morning when 
I had caught a momentary glimpse of him as he looked 
out over the blind through the glazed shop door. In the 
interval his appearance had changed considerably for the 
better. He was no longer a merely unshaved man; his 
beard had grown to a respectable length, and, so far as 
I could judge in the uncertain light, the hare-lip scar was 
completely concealed by his moustache. 


/ 


108 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


, 


“Let me see,’ said Cropper, as he polished a scalpel 
on the palm of his hand, “when did you say Mr. Bende- 
low died?” 

“Vesterday afternoon at about five o’clock,” replied Mr. 
Morris, | 

“Did he really ?”’ said Cropper, lifting one of the limp 
arms and letting it drop on the bed. “Yesterday after- 
noon! Now, Gray, doesn’t that show how careful one 
should be in giving opinions as to the time that has 
elapsed since death? If I had been shown this body and 
asked how long the man had been dead, I should have 
said three or four days. ‘There isn’t the least trace of 
rigor mortis left; and the other appearances—but there 
it is. You are never safe in giving dogmatic opinions.” 

“No,” I agreed. “I should have said he had been 
dead more than twenty-four hours. But I suppose there 
is a good deal of variation.” | 

“There is,” he replied. “You can’t apply averages to 
particular cases.”’ 

I did not consider it necessary to take any active part 
in the proceedings. It was his diagnosis, and it was for 
him to verify it. At his request Mr. Morris fetched a 
candle and held it as he was directed; and while these 
preparations were in progress, I looked out of the win- 
dow, which commanded a partial view of the canal. The 
moon had now risen and its full light fell on the white- 
painted hull of the Dutch sloop, which had come to rest 
and made fast alongside a small wharf. It was quite 
a pleasant picture, strangely at variance with the squalid 
neighbourhood around. As I looked down on the little 
vessel, with the ruddy light glowing from the deck-house 
windows and casting shimmering reflections in the quiet 






SIMON BENDELOW, DECEASED 109 


water, the sight seemed to carry me far away from the 
sordid streets around into the fellowship of the breezy 
ocean and the far-away shores whence the little craft 
had sailed ; and I determined, as soon as our business was 
finished, to seek some access to the canal and indulge 
myself with a quiet stroll in the moonlight along the de- 
serted towing-path. 

“Well, Gray,’ said Cropper, standing up with the 
scalpel and forceps in his hands, “there it is if you want 
to see it. Typical carcinoma. Now we can sign the 
certificates with a clear conscience. [Il just put in a 
stitch or two, and then we can put him back in his coffin. 
I suppose you have got the forms?” 

“They are downstairs,’ said Mr. Morris. “When 
we have got him back I will show you the way down.” 

This, however, was unnecessary, as there was only one 
staircase, and I was not a stranger. Accordingly, when 
we had replaced the body, we took our leave of Mr. 
Morris and departed; and, glancing back as I passed out 
of the door, I saw him driving in the screws with the 
ready skill of a cabinet-maker. 

The filling-up of the forms was a portentous business 
which was carried out in the drawing-room under the 
superintendence of Mrs. Morris, and was watched with 
respectful interest by the two spinsters. When it was 
finished and I had handed the registration certificate to 
Mrs. Morris, Cropper gathered up the forms “B” and 
“C,” and slipped them into a long envelope on which the 
Medical Referee’s address was printed. 

_ “T will post this off to-night,” said he; “and you will 
send in Form A, Mrs. Morris, when you have filled it 
hy 


110 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


“T have sent it off already,” she replied. 

“Good,” said Dr. Cropper. ‘Then that is all; and 
now I must run away. Can I put you down anywhere, 
Gray ?” | 

“Thank you, no,’ I replied. “I thought of taking a 
walk along the tow-path, if you can tell me how to get 
down to it, Mrs. Morris.” 

“I can’t,” she replied. “But when Dr. Cropper has 
gone, I will run up and ask my husband. I daresay he 
knows.” : 

We escorted Cropper along the passage to the door, 
which he reached without mishap, and having seen him 
into his brougham, turned back to the hall, where Mrs. 
Morris ascended the stairs, and I went into the drawing- 
room, where the two spinsters appeared to be preparing 
for departure. In a couple of minutes Mrs. Morris re- - 
turned, and seeing both the ladies standing, said: “You 
are not going yet, Miss Dewsnep. You must have some 
refreshment before you go. Besides, I thought you 
wanted to see Mr. Bendelow again.” 

“So we should,” said Miss Dewsnep. “Just a little 


+B] 


peep, to see how he looks after 
“T will take you up in a minute,” interrupted Mrs. — 
Morris. “When Dr. Gray has gone.” Then addressieg 





o 


me, she said: “My husband says that you can get down 
to the tow-path through that alley nearly opposite. There 
is a flight of steps at the end which comes right out on 
the path.”’ 3 

I thanked her for the direction, and having bidden 
farewell to the spinsters, was once more escorted along 
the passage and finally launched into the outer world. 





CHAPTER IX 
A STRANGE MISADVENTURE 


AxttHuoucGH I had been in harness but a few weeks, it 
was with a pleasant sense of freedom that I turned from 
the door and crossed the road towards the alley. My 
time was practically my own, for, though I was remaining 
with Dr. Cornish until the end of the week, he was now 
in charge, and my responsibilities were at an end. 

The alley was entered by an arched opening, so nar- 
row that I had never suspected it of being a public 
thoroughfare, and I now threaded it with my shoulders 
almost touching the walls. Whither it finally led I have 
no idea, for when I reached another arched opening in 
the left hand wall and saw that this gave on a flight of 
stone steps, I descended the latter and found myself on 
the tow-path. At the foot of the steps I stood awhile 
and looked about me. The moon was nearly full, and 
shone brightly on the opposite side of the canal, but the 
tow-path was in deep shadow, being flanked by a high 
wall, behind which were the houses of the adjoining 
streets. Looking back—that is, to my left—I could just 
make out the bridge and the adjoining buildings, all 
their unlovely details blotted out by the thin night-haze, 
which reduced them to mere flat shapes of grey. A little 
nearer, one or two spots of ruddy light with wavering 
reflections beneath them, marked the cabin windows of 
the sloop, and her mast, rising above the grey eat 
was clearly visible against the slcy. 

Tilt 


112 THE DARBLAY Myst iia 


Naturally, I turned in that direction, sauntering lux- 
uriously and filling my pipe as I went. Doubtless, by 
day the place was sordid enough in aspect—though it is 
hard to vulgarize a navigable water-way—but now, in 
the moon-lit haze, the scene was almost romantic. And 
it was astonishingly quiet and peaceful. From above, 
beyond the high wall, the noises of the streets came 
subdued and distant, like sounds from another world; 
but here there was neither sound nor movement. The 
tow-path was utterly deserted, and the only sign of hu- 
man life was the glimmer of light from the sloop. 

It was delightfully restful. I found myself treading 
the gravel lightly not to disturb the grateful silence, and 
as I strolled along, enjoying my pipe, I let my thoughts 
ramble idly from one topic to another. Somewhere 
above me, in that rather mysterious house, Simon Ben- 


delow was lying in his narrow bed, the wasted, yellow — 


face looking out into the darkness through that queer little 
celluloid window, or perhaps Miss Dewsnep and her friend 
were even now taking their farewell peep at him. I 
looked up, but, of course, the house was not visible from 
the tow-path, nor was I now able to guess at its position. 

A little farther, and the hull of the sloop came clearly 
into view, and nearly opposite to it, on the tow-path, I 
could see some kind of shed or hut against the wall, 
with a derrick in front of it overhanging a little quay. 
When I had nearly reached the shed, I passed a door in 


the wall, which apparently communicated with some house 


in one of the streets above. Then I came to the shed, 
a small wooden building which probably served as a 


lighterman’s office, and I noticed that the derrick swung 





A STRANGE MISADVENTURE 113 


from one of the corner-posts. But at this moment my 
attention was attracted by sounds of mild revelry from 
across the canal. Some one in the sloop’s deck-house had 
burst into song. 

I stepped out on to the little quay and stood at the 
edge, looking across at the homely curtained windows 
and wondering what the interior of the deck-house looked 
like at this moment. Suddenly my ear caught an audible 
creak from behind me. I was in the act of turning to 
see whence it came when something struck me a heavy, 
glancing blow on the arm, crashed to the ground, and 
sent me flying over the edge of the quay. 

Fortunately the water here was not more than four 
feet deep, and as J had plunged in feet first, and am a 
good swimmer, I never lost control of myself. In a 
moment I was standing up with my head and shoulders 
out of water, not particularly alarmed, though a good 
deal annoyed and much puzzled as to what had hap- 
pened. My first care was to recover my hat, which was 
floating forlornly close by, and the next was to consider 
how I should get ashore. My left arm was numb from 
the blow and was evidently useless for climbing. More- 
over, the face of the quay was of smooth concrete, as 
was also the wall below the tow-path. But I remem- 
bered having passed a pair of boat-steps some fifty yards 
back, and decided to make for them. I had thought of 
hailing the sloop, but as the droning song still came from 
the deck-house, it was clear that the Dutchmen had heard 
nothing, and I did not think it worth while to disturb 
them. Accordingly, I set forth for the steps, walking 
with no little difficulty over the soft, muddy bottom, 





ta THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


keeping close to the side and steadying myself with my 
right hand, with which I could just reach the edge of 
the coping. 

It seemed a long journey, for one cannot progress very 
fast over soft mud with the water up to one’s armpits; 
but at last I reached the steps and managed to scramble 
up on to the tow-path. There I ,stood for a moment 
or two irresolute. My first impulse was to hurry back 
as fast as I could and seek the Morrises’ hospitality; for 
I was already chilled to the bone and felt as physically 
wretched as the proverbial cat in similar circumstances. 
But I was devoured by curiosity as to what had hap- 
pened, and moreover I believed that I had dropped my 
stick on the quay. The latter consideration decided me, 
for it was a favourite stick, and I set out for the quay at 
a very different pace from that at which I had approached 
it the first time. 

The mystery was solved long before I arrived at the 
quay; at least it was solved in part. For the derrick 
which had overhung the quay, now lay on the ground. 
Obviously it had fallen—and had missed my head only 
by a matter of inches. But how had it come to fall? 
Again, obviously, the guy-rope had given way. As it 
could not have broken, seeing that the derrick was un- 
loaded and the rope must have been strong enough to 
bear the last load, I was a good deal puzzled as to how 
the accident could have befallen. Nor was I much less 
puzzled when I had made my inspection. The rope 
was, of course, unbroken and its “fall’’—the part below 
the pulley-blocks—passed into the shed through a win- 
dow-like hole. This I could see as I approached, and 
also that a door in the end of the shed nearest to me was 


ae ee eo 


A STRANGE MISADVENTURE 115 


ajar. Opening it, I plunged into the dark interior, and 
partly by touch and partly by the faint glimmer that came 
in at the window, I was able to make out the state of 
affairs. Just below the hole through which the rope 
entered was a large cleat, on which the fall must have 
been delayed. But the cleat was vacant, the rope hung 
down from the hole and its end lay in an untidy raffle 
on the floor. It looked as if it had been cast off the 
cleat; but as there had apparently been no one in the 
shed, the only possible supposition was that the rope had 
been badly secured, that it had gradually worked loose 
and had at last slipped off the cleat. But it was difficult 
to understand how it had slipped right off. 

I found my stick lying at the edge of the quay and 
close by it my pipe. Having recovered these treasures, 
I set off to retrace my steps along the tow-path, sped 
on my way by a jovial chorus from the sloop. A very 
few minutes brought me to the steps, which I ascended two 
at a time, and then, having traversed the alley, I came 
out sheepishly into Market-street. To my relief, I saw 
a light in Mr. Morris’ shop, and could even make out 
a moving figure in the background. I hurried across, 
and, opening the glazed door, entered the shop, at the 
back of which Mr Morris was seated at a bench filing 
some small object which was fixed in a vice. He looked 
round at me with no great cordiality, but suddenly 
observing my condition, he dropped his file on the bench, 
and exclaimed : | 

“Good Lord, Doctor! What on earth have you been 
doing ?”’ 

“Nothing on earth,” 1 replied, with a feeble grin, “but 
something in the water. I’ve been intu the canal.” 


116 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


“But what for?” he demanded, 

“Oh, I didn’t go in intentionally,” I replied; and then 
I gave him a sketch of the incident, as short as I could 
make it, for my teeth were chattering and explanations 
were chilly work. However, he rose nobly to the occa- 
sion. “You'll catch your death of cold!” he exclaimed, 
starting up. “Come in here, and slip off your things at 
once, while I go for some blankets.” 

He led me into a little den behind the shop, and, having 
lighted a gas fire, went out by a back door. I lost no 
time in peeling off my dripping clothes, and by the time 
that he returned I was in a state in which I ought to 
have been when I took my plunge. 

“Here you are,” said he. “Put on this dressing-gown 
and wrap yourself in the blankets. We'll draw this 
chair up to the fire, and then you will be all right for 
the present.” 

I followed his directions, pouring out my thanks as 
well as my chattering teeth would let me. 

“Oh, that’s all right,” said he. “If you will empty 
your pockets, the missus can put some of the things 
through the wringer, and then they'll soon dry. There 
happens to be a good fire in the kitchen; some advance 
cooking on account of the funeral. You can dry your 
hat and boots here. If any one comes to the shop you 
might just press that electric bell-push.” 

When he had gone, I drew the Windsor armchair 
close to the fire and made myself as comfortable as I 
could, dividing my attention between my hat and my 
boots, which called for careful roasting, and the contents 
ot the room. The latter appeared to be a sort of store 
for the reserve stock-in-trade, and certainly this was 





A STRANGE MISADVENTURE 117 


a most amazing collection. I could not see a single article 
for which I would have given sixpence. The array on 
the shelves suggested that the shop had been stocked with 
the sweepings of all the stalls in Market-street, with those 
of Shoreditch High-street thrown in. As I ran my eye 
along the ranks of dial-less clocks, cracked fiddles, stop- 
perless decanters, and tattered theological volumes, J 
found myself speculating profoundly on how Mr. Morris 
made a livelihood. He professed to be a “dealer in an- 
tiques,” and there was assuredly no question as to the 
antiquity of the goods in this room. But there is little 
pecuniary value in the kind of antiquity that is unearthed 
from a dust bin. 

It was really rather mysterious. Mr. Morris was a 
somewhat superior man, and he did not appear to be poor. 
Yet this shop did not seem capable of yielding an in- 
come that would have been acceptable to a rag-picker. 
And during the whole of the time in which I sat warm- 
ing myself, there was not a single visitor to the shop. 
However, it was no concern of mine; and I had just 
reached this sage conclusion when Mr. Morris returned 
with my clothes. 

“There,” he said, “they are very creased and dis- 
reputable, but they are quite dry. They would have had 
to be cleaned and pressed, in any case.” 

With this he went out into the shop and resumed his 
filing, while I put on the stiff and crumpled garments. 
When I was dressed, I followed him and thanked him 
effusively for his kind offices, leaving also a grateful 
message for his wife. He took my thanks rather stolidly, 
and having wished me “good night,” picked up his file 
and fell to work again. 


118 THE D'ARBLAY (MYSTERY 


I decided to walk home; principally, I think, to avoid 
exhibiting myself in a public vehicle. But my self-con- 
sciousness soon wore off, and when, in the neighbour- 
hood of Clerkenwell, I perceived Dr. Usher, on the op- 
posite side of the street, I crossed the road and touched 
his arm. He looked round quickly, and, recognizing me, 
shook hands cordially. 

‘What are you doing on my beat at this time of night?” 
he asked. “You are not still at Cornish’s, are you?” 

“Yes,” I answered, “but not for long. I have just 
made my last visit and signed the death certificate.” 

“Good man,” said he. “Very methodical. Nothing 


like finishing a case up neatly. They didn’t invite you. 


to the funeral, I suppose?” 

“No,” I replied, “and I shouldn’t have gone if they 
had.” 

“Quite right,” he agreed. ‘Funerals are rather out- 
side medical practice. But you have to go sometimes. 
Policy, you know. I had to go to one the day before 
yesterday. Beastly nuisance it was. Chappie would in- 
sist on putting me down at my own door in the mourn- 
ing coach. Meant well, of course, but it was very awk- 
ward. All the neighbours came to their shop doors and 
grinned as I got out. Felt an awful fool; couldn’t grin 
back, you see. Had to keep up the farce to the end.” 

“T don’t see that it was exactly a farce,’ I objected. 

“That is because you weren’t there,” he retorted. “It 
was the silliest exhibition you ever saw. Just think of 
it! The parson who ran the show had actually got a 
lot of schoolchildren to stand round the grave and sing 
a blooming hymn: ‘Safe in the arms of’—you know the 
confounded doggerel.”’ 


ef 


& GD 


Sf Cet 


poor --) Ao p 


A STRANGE MISADVENTURE 119 


“Well, why not?’ I protested. “I daresay the friends 
of the deceased liked it.’’ 

“No doubt,” said he. “I expect they put the parson 
up to it. But it was sickening to hear those kids bleating 
that stuff. How did they know where he was—an old 
rip with malignant disease of the pancreas, too!” 

“Really, Usher!” I exclaimed, laughing at his quaint 
cynicism, “you are unreasonable. There are no patho- 


‘logical disqualifications for the better land, I hope.” 


“T suppose not,” he agreed, with a grin. “Don’t have 
to show a clean bill of health before they let you in, But 
it was a trying business, you must admit. I hate cant 
of that sort; and yet one had to pull a long face and 


join in the beastly chorus.” 


The picture that his last words suggested was too 
much for my gravity. I laughed long and joyously. 
However, Usher was not offended; indeed, I suspect that 
he appreciated the humour of the situation as much as 
I did. But he had trained himself to an outward so- 
lemnity of manner that was doubtless a valuable asset 
in his particular class of practice, and he walked at my 
side in unmoved gravity, taking an occasional, quick, 
critical look at me. When we came to the parting of our 
ways he once more shook my hand warmly and delivered 
a little farewell speech. 

“You've never been to see me, Gray. Haven’t had 
time, I suppose. But when you are free you might look 
me up one evening to have a smoke and a giass and 
talk over old times. There’s always a bit of grub going, 
you know.” 


>~_ I promised to drop in before long, and he then added: 


£ 
8 


Wen! 
4 


“T gave you one or two tips when I saw you last. Now 


120 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


I’m going to give you another. Never neglect your 
appearance. It’s a great mistake. Treat yourself with 
respect and the world will respect you. No need to be 
a dandy. But just keep an eye on your tailor and your 
laundress—especially your laundress. Clean collars don’t 
cost much and they pay; and so does a trousers press. 
People expect a doctor to be well turned out. Now you 
mustn’t think me impertinent. We are old pals and I 
want you to get on. So long, old chap. Look me up as 
soon as you can’; and without giving me the oppor- 
tunity to reply, he turned about and bustled off, swinging 
his umbrella and offering, perhaps, a not very impressive 
illustration of his own excellent precepts. But his words 
served as a reminder which caused me to pursue the 
remainder of my journey by way of side-streets neither 
too well lighted nor too much frequented. 

As I let myself in with my key and closed the street 
door, Cornish stepped out of the dining-room. 

“TI thought you were lost, Gray,’ said he. “Where 
the deuce have you been all this time?’ Then, as I came 
into the light of the hall lamp, he exclaimed: “And what 
in the name of Fortune have you been up to?” — 

“T have had a wetting,” I explained. “Tl tell you all 
about it presently.” 

‘Dr. Thorndyke is in the dining-room,” said he; 
“came in a few minutes ago to see you.” He seized me 
by the arm and ran me into the room, where I found 
Thorndyke methodically filling his pipe. He looked up 
as I entered and regarded me with raised eyebrows. 

“Why, my dear fellow, you’ve been in the water!” he 
exclaimed. “But yet your clothes are not wet. What 
has been happening to you?” 


A STRANGE MISADVENTURE 121 


“Tf you can wait a few minutes,” I replied, “while I 
wash and change, I will relate my adventures. But 
perhaps you haven’t time.” 

“TY want to hear all about it,” he replied, “so run along 
and be as quick as you can.” 

I bustled up to my room, and having washed and ex- 
ecuted a lightning change, came down to the dining- 
room, where I found Cornish in the act of setting out 
decanters and glasses. 

“T’ve told Dr. Thorndyke what took you to Hoxton,” 
said he, “and he wants a full account of everything that 
happened. He is always suspicious of cremation cases, as 
you know from his lectures.”’ 

“Yes, I remember his warnings,” said I. “But this 
was a perfectly commonplace, straightforward affair.” 

“Did you go for your swim before or after the exami- 
nation?” Thorndyke asked. 

“Oh, after,” I replied. 

“Then let us hear about the examination first,” said 
he. 

On this I plunged into a detailed account of all that 
had befallen since my arrival at Market-street, to which 
Thorndyke listened, not only patiently, but with the 
closest attention, and even cross-examined me to elicit 
further details. Everything seemed to interest him, from 
the construction of the coffin to the contents of Mr. 
Morris’ shop. When I had finished, Cornish remarked: 

“Well, it is a queer affair. I don’t understand that 
rope at all. Ropes don’t uncleat themselves. They may 
slip, but they don’t come right off the cleat. It looks 
more as if some mischievous fool had cast it off for a 
joke.” 


122 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


“But there was no one there,” said J. “The shed was 
empty when J examined it, and there was not a soul in 
sight on the tow-path.” 

“Could you see the shed when you were in the water?” 
Thorndyke asked. 

“No. My head was below the level of the tow-path. 
But if any one had run out and made off, I must have 
seen him on the path when I came out. He couldn't 
have got out of sight in the time. Besides, it is incredible 
that even a fool should play such a trick as that.” 

“Tt is,’ he agreed. “But every explanation seems 
incredible. The only plain fact is that it happened. It is 
a queer business altogether; and not the least queer 
feature in the case is your friend Morris. Hoxton is an 
unlikely place for a dealer in antiques, unless he should 
happen to deal in other things as well; things, I mean, 
of ambiguous ownership.” 

“Just what I was thinking,’ said Cornish. ‘Sounds 
uncommonly like a fence. However, that is no business 
of ours.” 

“No,” agreed Thorndyke, rising and knocking out his 
pipe. “‘And now I must be going. Do you care to walk 
with me to the bottom of Doughty-street, Gray?” 

I assented at once, suspecting that he had something 
to say to me that he did not wish to say before Cornish. 
And so it turned out; for as soon as we were outside he 
said: 

“What I really called about was this: it seems that we 
have done the police an injustice. They were more on 
the spot than we gave them credit for. I have learned— 
and this is in the strictest confidence—that they took that 


coin round to the British Museum for the expert’s report. 





ee ee aes 


: 
: 
; 
: 


A STRANGE MISADVENTURE 123 


Then a very curious fact came to light. That coin is 
not the original which was stolen. It is an electrotype 
in gold, made in two halves very neatly soldered together 
and carefully worked on the milled edge to hide the join. 
That is extremely important in several respects, In the 
first place, it suggests an explanation of the otherwise 
incredible circumstance that it was being carried loose 
in the waistcoat pocket. It had probably been recently 
obtained from the electrotyper. That suggests the ques- 
tion, is it possible that D’Arblay might have been that 
electrotyper? Did he ever work the electrotype process? 
We must ascertain whether he did.” 

“There is no need,” said I. “It is known to me asa 
fact that he did. The little plaquettes that I took for 
castings are electrotypes, made by himself. He worked 
the process quite a lot, and was very skilful in finishing. 
For instance, he did a small bust of his daughter in two 
parts and brazed them together,” 

“Then, you see, Gray,” said Thorndyke, “that ad- 
vances us considerably. We now have a plausible sugges- 
tion as to the motive and a new field of investigation. 
Let us suppose that this man employed D’Arblay to make 
electrotype copies of certain unique objects with the in- 
tention of disposing of them to collectors. The originals, 
being stolen property, would be almost impossible to dis- 
pose of with safety, but a copy would not necessarily in- 
criminate the owner. But when D’Arblay had made 
the copies, he would be a dangerous person, for he would 
know who had the originals. Here, to a man whom 
we know to be a callous murderer, would be a sufficient 
reason for making away with D’Arblay.” 

“But do you think that D’Arblay would have under- 


124 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 
taken such a decidedly fishy job? It seems hardly like 


him.” 

“Why not?” demanded Thorndyke. “There was 
nothing suspicious about the transaction, The man who 
wanted the copies was the owner of the originals, and 
D’Arblay would not know or suspect that they were 
stolen.” 


“That is true,” I admitted. “But you were speaking — 


of a new field of investigation.” 

“Yes. Ifa number of copies of different objects have 
been made, there is a fair chance that some of them have 
been disposed of. If they have, and can be traced, they 
will give us a start along a new line, which may bring us 
in sight of the man himself. Do you ever see Miss 
D’Arblay now?” 

“Oh, yes,” I replied. “I am quite one of the family 
at Highgate. I have been there every Sunday lately.” 

“Have you!” he exclaimed with a smile. “You are a 
pretty locum tenens. However, if you are quite at home 
there you can make a few discreet inquiries. Find out, 
if you can, whether any electros had been made recently, 
and if so, what they were and who was the client. Will 
you do that?” 

I agreed readily, only too glad to take an active part in 
the investigation; and having by this time reached the 
end of Doughty-street, I took leave of Thorndyke, and 
made my way back to Cornish’s house. 





CHAPTER X 
MARION’S PERIL 


THE mist, which had been gathering since the early 
afternoon, began to thicken ominously as I approached 
Abbey-road, Hornsey, from Crouch End Station, caus- 
ing me to quicken my pace so that I might make my des- 
tination before the fog closed in; for this was my first 
visit to Marion D’Arblay’s studio, and the neighbourhood 
was strange to me. And in fact I was none too soon; 
for hardly had I set my hand on the quaint bronze knocker 
above the plate inscribed “Mr. J. D’Arblay,” when the 
adjoining houses grew pale and shadowy and then van- 
ished altogether. 

My elaborate knock—in keeping with the distinguished 
knocker—was followed by soft, quick footsteps, the 
sound whereof set my heart ticking in double-quick 
time; the door opened, and there stood Miss D’Arblay, 
garbed in a most alluring blue smock or pinafore, with 
sleeves rolled up to the elbow, with a smile of friendly 
welcome on her comely face, and looking so sweet and 
charming that I yearned then and there to take her in 
my arms and kiss her. This, however being inadmis- 
sible, I shook her hand warmly and was forthwith con- 
ducted through the outer lobby into the main studio, 
where I stood looking about me with amused surprise. 
She looked at me inquiringly as I emitted an audible 
chuckle. 


“It is a queer-looking place,” said I; “something be- 
125 


126 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


tween a miracle-shrine hung with votive offerings from 
sufferers who have been cured of sore heads and arms 
and legs, and a meat emporium in a cannibal district.” 

“Tt is nothing of the kind!” she exclaimed indignantly. 
“T don’t mind the votive offerings, but I reject the can- 
nibal meat-market as a gross and libellous fiction. But 
I suppose it does look rather queer to a stranger.” 

“To a what?” I demanded fiercely. 

“Oh, I only meant a stranger to the place, of course, 
and you know I did. So you needn’t be cantankerous.” 

She glanced smilingly round the studio, and for the 
first time, apparently, the oddity of its appearance dawned 
on her, for she laughed softly and then turned a mis- © 
chievous eye on me as I gaped about me like a bumpkin 
at a fair. The studio was a very large and lofty room 
or hall, with a partially glazed roof and a single large 
window just below the skylight. The walls were fitted 
partly with rows of large shelves, and the remainder with 
ranks of pegs. From the latter hung row after row of 
casts of arms, hands, legs, and faces—especially faces— 
while the shelves supported a weird succession of heads, 
busts, and a few half-length but armless figures. The 
general effect was very strange and uncanny, and what 
made it more so was the fact that all the heads presented 
perfectly smooth, bare craniums. 

“Are artists’ models usually bald?’ I inquired, as I 
noted this latter phenomenon. 

“Now you are being foolish,” she replied; “wilfully 
and deliberately foolish. You know very well that all 
these heads have got to be fitted with wigs; and you 
couldn’t fit a wig to a head that already had a fine cover- 
ing of plaster curls. But I must admit that it rather 


MARION’S PERIL 127 


detracts from the beauty of a girl’s head if you represent 
it without hair. The models used to hate it when they 
were shown with heads like old gentlemen’s, and so did 
poor Daddy; in fact, he usually rendered the hair in the 
clay, just sketchily, for the sake of the model’s feelings 
and his own, and took it off afterwards with a wire 
tool. But there is the kettle boiling over. I must make 
the tea. 

While this ceremony was being performed I strolled 
round the studio and inspected the.casts, more particularly 
the heads and faces. Of these latter the majority were 
obviously modelled, but I noticed a number with closed 
eyes, having very much the appearance of death masks. 
When we had taken our places at the little table near 
the great gas-ring I inquired what they were. 

“They do look rather cadaverous, don’t they?” she 
said, as she poured out the tea; “but they are not death 
masks, They are casts from»living faces, mostly from 
the faces'of models, but my father always used to take 
a cast from any one who would let him, They are quite 
useful to work from, though, of course, the eyes have to 
be put in from another cast or from life.” 

“It must be rather an unpleasant operation,” I said, 
“having the plaster poured over the face. .How does the 
victim manage to breathe?” 

“The usual plan is to put little tubes or quills into the 
nostrils. But my father could keep the nostrils free with- 
out any tubes. He was a very skilful moulder; and then 
he always used the best plaster, which set very quickly, 
so that it only took a few minutes.” 

“And how are you getting on, and what were you 
doing when I came in?” 


128 THE D'ARBLAY MYsteky 


“T am getting on quite well,” she replied. ‘My work 
has been passed as satisfactory, and I have three new 
commissions. When you came in I was just getting 
ready to make a mould for a head and shoulders. After 
tea I shall go on with it, and you shall help me. But 
tell me about yourself. You have finished with Dr. 
Cornish, haven’t you?” 

“Yes, I am a gentleman at large for the time being, 
but that won’t do. I shall have to look out for another 
S00y,\¢ | | 

“T hope it will be a London job,” she said. “Ara- 
bella and I would feel quite lonely if you went away even 
for a week or two. We both look forward so much to our 
little family gathering on Sunday afternoon.” 

“You don’t look forward to it as much as I do,” I 
said warmly. “It is difficult for me to realize that there 
was ever a time when you were not a part of my life. 
And yet we are quite new friends.” 

“Yes,” she said; “‘only a few weeks old. But I have 
the same feeling. I seem to have known you for years, 
and as for Arabella, she speaks of you as if she had 
nursed you from infancy. You have a very insinuating 
way with you.” 

“Oh, don’t spoil it by calling me insinuating!’ I 
protested. ee 

“No, I won't,” she replied. “It was the wrong word... 
I meant sympathetic. You have the gift of entering into 
other people’s troubles and feeling them as if they were 
your own; which is a very precious gift—to the other 
people.” 

“Your troubles are my own,” said I, “since I have the 





MARION’S PERIL 129 


privilege to be your friend. But I have been a happier 
man since I shared them.” 

“It 1s very nice of you to say that,” she murmured, with 
a quick glance at me and just a faint heightening of 
colour; and then for a while neither of us spoke. 

“Have you seen Dr. Thorndyke lately?” she asked, 
when she had refilled our cups, and thereby, as it were, 
punctuated our silence. 

“Yes,” I answered. “I saw him only a night or two 
ago. And that reminds me that I was commissioned to 
make some inquiries. Can you tell me if your father 
ever did any electrotype work for outsiders?” 

“TJ don’t know,’ she answered. “He used latterly 
to electrotype most of his own work instead of sending it 
to the bronze-founders, but it is hardly likely that he 
would do electros for outsiders. There are firms who 
do nothing else, and I know that, when he was busy, 
he used to send his work to them. But why do you ask?” 

I related to her what Thorndyke had told me, and 
pointed out the importance of ascertaining the facts, 
which she saw at once. 

““As soon as we have finished tea,” she said, “we will 
go and look over the cupboard where the electro moulds 
were kept—that is, the permanent ones. The gelatine 
moulds for works in the round couldn’t be kept. They 
were melted down again. But the water-proofed plaster 
moulds were stored away in this cupboard, and the gutta- 
percha ones, too, until they were wanted to soften down 
to make new moulds. And even if the moulds were 
destroyed, Father usually kept a cast.” 

“Would you be able to tell by looking through the 
cupboard ?” I asked. 


130 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


“Yes. I should know a strange mould, of course, as 
I saw all the original work that he did. Have we fin- 
ished? Then let us go and settle the question now.” 

She produced a bunch of keys from her pocket and 
crossed the studio to a large, tall cupboard in a corner. 
Selecting a key, she inserted it and was trying vainly 
to turn it when the door came open. She looked at it 
in surprise and then turned to me with a somewhat 
puzzled expression. 

“This is really very curious,’ she said. “When I 
came here this morning I found the outer door unlocked. 
Naturally I thought I must have forgotten to lock it, 
though that would have been an extraordinary oversight. 
And now I find this door unlocked. But I distinctly 
remember locking it before going away last night, when 
I had put back the box of modelling wax. What do 
you make of that?” 

“Tt looks as if some one had entered the studio last 
night with false keys or by picking the lock. But why 
should they? Perhaps the cupboard will tell. You will 
know if it has been disturbed.” 

She ran her eyes along the shelves and said at once: 
“Tt has been. The things are all in disorder and one of 
the moulds is broken. We had better take them all out 
and see if anything is missing—so far as I can judge, 
that is, for the moulds were just as my father left them.” 

We dragged a small work-table to the cupboard and 
emptied the shelves one by one. She examined each 
mould as we took it out, and I jotted down a rough list 
at her dictation. When we had been through the whole 
collection and re-arranged the moulds on the shelves— 







MARION’S PERIL 131 


they were mostly plaques and medallions—she slowly 
read through the list and reflected for a few moments. 
At length she said: 

“T don’t miss anything that I can remember. But the 
question is, Were there any moulds or casts that I did 
not know aboutr I am thinking of Dr. Thorndyke’s 
question. If there were any, they have gone, so that 
question cannot be answered.” 

We looked at one another gravely, and in both our 
minds was the same unspoken question: “Who was it 
that had entered the studio last night?” | 

We had just closed the cupboard and were moving 
away when my eye caught a small object half-hidden in 
the darkness under the cupboard itself—the bottom of 
which was raised by low feet about an inch and a half 
from the floor. I knelt down and passed my hand into 
the shallow space and was just able to hook it out. It 
proved to be a fragment of a small plaster mould, satu- 
rated with wax and black-leaded on the inside. Miss 
D’Arblay stooped over it eagerly and exclaimed: “I don’t 
know that one. What a pity it is such a small piece. 
But it is certainly part of a coin.” 

“TIt:1is part of the coin,” said I. “There can be no 
doubt of that. I examined the cast that Dr. Thorndyke 
made and I recognize this as the same. There is the 
lower part of the bust, the letters C A—the first two 
letters of Carolus—and the tiny elephant and castle. 
That is conclusive. This is the mould from which that 
electrotype was made. But I had better hand it to Dr. 
Thorndyke to compare with the cast that he has.’ 

I carefully bestowed the fragment in my -tobacco- 


132 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


pouch, as the safest place for the time being, and mean- 
while Miss D’Arblay looked fixedly at me with a very 
singular expression. 

“Vou realize,’ she said in a hushed voice,“what this 
means. He was in here last night.” 

I nodded. The same conclusion had instantly occurred 
to me, and a very uncomfortable one it was. There was 
something very sinister and horrid in the thought of that 
murderous villain quietly letting himself into this studio 
and ransacking its hiding-places in the dead of the night. 
So unpleasantly suggestive was it that for a time neither 
of us spoke a word, but stood looking blankly at one 
another in silent dismay. And in the midst of the tense 
silence there came a knock at the door. 

We both started as if we had been struck. Then Miss 
D’Arblay, recovering herself quickly, said: “I had better 
go,” and hurried down the studio to the lobby. 

I listened nervously, tor I was a little unstrung. I 
heard her go into the lobby and open the outer door. I 
heard a low voice, apparently asking a question; the 
outer door closed, and then came a sudden scuffling sound 
and a piercing shriek. With a shout of alarm, I raced 
down the studio, knocking over a chair as I ran, and 
darted into the lobby just as the outer door slammed. 

For a moment I hesitated. Miss D’Arblay had shrunk 
into a corner, and stood in the semi-darkness with both 
her hands pressed tightly to her breast. But she called 
out excitedly: “Follow him! I am not hurt”; and on 
this I wrenched open the door and stepped out. 

But the first glance showed me that pursuit was hope- 
less. The fog had now become so dense that I could 


ee ee ee 


MARION’S PERIL 133 


hardly see my own feet. I dared not leave the threshold 
for fear of not being able to find my way back. Then 
she would be alone—and he was probably lurking close 
by even now. 

I stood irresolute, stock-still; listening intently. The 
silence was profound. All the natural noises of a popu- 
lous neighbourhood seemed to be smothered by the dense 
blanket of dark yellow vapour. Not a sound came to my 
ear ; no stealthy footfall, no rustle of movement. Nothing 
but stark silence. 

Uneasily I crept back until the open doorway showed 
as a dim rectangle of shadow; crept back and peered fear- 
fully into the darkness of the lobby. She was still stand- 
ing in the corner—an upright smudge of deeper darkness 
in the obscurity. But even as I looked, the shadowy 
figure collapsed and slid noiselessly to the floor. 

In an instant the pursuit was forgotten, and I darted 
into the lobby, shutting the outer door behind me, and 
dropped on my knees at her side. Where she had fallen 
a streak of light came in from the studio, and the sight 
that it revealed turned me sick with terror. The whole 
front of her smock, from the breast downwards, was 
saturated with blood; both her hands were crimson and 
gory, and her face was dead-white to the lips. 

For an instant I was paralyzed with horror. I could 
see no movement of breathing, and the white face with 
its parted lips and half-closed eyes, was as the face of 
the dead. But when I dared to search for the wound, 
I was a little reassured; for, closely as I scrutinized it, 
the gory smock showed no sign of a cut excepting on 
the bloodstained right sleeve. And now I noticed a deep 


134 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


gash on the left hand, which was still bleeding freely, and 
was probably the source of the blood which had soaked 
the smock. There seemed to be no vital wound. 

With a deep breath of relief, I hastily tore my hand- 
kerchief into strips and applied the improvised bandage 
tightly enough to control the bleeding. Then with the 
scissors from my pocket-case, which I now carried from 
habit, I laid open the blood-stained sleeve. The wound 
on the arm, just above the elbow, was quite shallow; a 
glancing wound, which tailed off upwards into a scratch. 
A turn of the remaining strip of bandage secured it for 
the time being, and this done I once more explored the 
front of the smock, pulling its folds tightly apart in 
search of the dreaded cut. But there was none; and now, 
the bleeding being controlled, it was safe to take measures 
of restoration. Tenderly—and not without effort—l 
lifted her and carried her into the studio, where was a 
shabby but roomy couch, on which poor D’Arblay had 
been accustomed to rest when he stayed for the night. 
On this I laid her, and fetching some water and a towel, 
dabbed her face and neck. Presently she opened her 
eyes and heaved a deep sigh, looking at me with a 
troubled, bewildered expression, and evidently only half- 
conscious. Suddenly her eye caught the great blood- 


stain on her smock, and her expression grew wild and 


terrified. For a few moments she gazed at me with 
eyes full of horror; then, as the memory of her dread- 
ful experience rushed back on her, she uttered a little 
cry and burst into tears, moaning and sobbing almost 
hysterically. 

I rested her head on my shoulder and tried to com- 
fort her; and she, poor girl, weak and shaken by the 





= Z ge 
ee ee a eS a ae ee oe ee ia ee eal 





MARION’S PERIL 135 


awful shock, clung to me trembling, and wept passion- 
ately with her face buried in my breast. As for me, I 
was almost ready to weep, too, if only from sheer relief 
and revulsion from my late terrors. 

“Marion, darling!’ I murmured into her ear as lI 
stroked her damp hair. “Poor dear little woman! It 
was horrible. But you mustn’t cry any more now. Try 
to forget it, dearest.” 

She shook her head passionately. “I can never do 
that,’ she sobbed. “It will haunt me as long as [I live. 
Oh! and I am so frightened, even now. What a coward 
I am!” 

“Indeed you are not!” I exclaimed. ‘“‘You are just 
weak from loss of blood. Why did you let me leave 
you, Marion?” 

“T didn’t think I was hurt, and I wasn’t particularly 
frightened then; and I hoped that if you followed him 
he might be caught. Did you see him?” 

“No. There is a thick fog outside. I didn’t dare to 
leave the threshold. Were you able to see what he was 
like?” 

She shuddered and choked down a sob. “He is a 
dreadful-looking man,” she said. “I loathed him at the 
_ first glance: a beetle-browed, hook-nosed wretch, with a 
face like that of some horrible bird of prey. But I 
couldn’t see him very distinctly, for it is rather dark in 
the lobby, and he wore a wide-brimmed hat, pulled down 
over his brows.” 

“Would you know him again? And can you give a 
description of him that would be of use to the police?” 

“I am sure I should know him again,” she said with 
a shudder. “It was a face that one could never forget. 


136 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


A hideous face! The face of ademon. I can see it now, 
and it will haunt me, sleeping and waking, until I die.” 

Her words ended with a catch of the breath, and she 
looked piteously into my face with wide, terrified eyes. I 
took her trembling hand and once more drew her head 
to my shoulder. 

“You mustn’t think that, dear,” said I. “You are all 
unstrung now, but these terrors will pass. Try to tell 
me quietly just what this man was like. What was his 
height, for instance?” 

“He was not very tall. Not much taller than I, And 
he was rather slightly built.’’ 

“Could you see whether he was dark or fair?” 

“He was rather dark. I could see a shock of hair 
sticking out from under his hat, and he had a moustache 
with turned-up ends and a beard; a rather short beard.” 

“And now as to his face. You say he had a hooked 
nose ?”’ 

“Yes; a great, high-bridged nose like the beak of some 
horrible bird. And his eyes seemed to be deep-set under 
heavy brows with bushy eyebrows. The face was rather 
thin, with high cheek-bones; a fierce, scowling, repulsive 
face. 

““And the voice? Should you know that again?” 

“T don’t know,” she answered. “He spoke in quite a 
low tone, rather indistinctly. And he said only a few 
words—something about having come to make some in- 
quiries about the cost of a wax model. Then he stepped 
into the lobby and shut the outer door, and immediately, 
without another word, he seized my right arm and struck 
at me. But I saw the knife in his hand, and as I called 


MARION’S PERIL ey, 


out I snatched at it with my left hand, so that it missed 
my body and I felt it cut my right arm. Then I got hold 
of his wrist. But he had heard you coming, and wrenched 
himself free. The next moment he had opened the door 
and rushed out, shutting it behind him.” 

She paused, and then added in a shaking voice: “If 
you had not been here—if I had been alone *s 

“We won't think of that, Marion. You were not 
alone, and you will never be again in this place. [I shall 
see to that.” 

At this she gave a little sigh of satisfaction, and looked 
into my face with the pallid ghost of a smile. 

“Then I shan’t be frightened any more,” she mur- 
mured; and, closing her eyes, she lay for a while, breath- 
ing quietly as if asleep. She looked very delicate and 
frail, with her waxen cheeks and the dark shadows under 
her eyes, but still I noted a faint tinge of colour stealing 
back into her lips. I gazed down at her with fond anxiety, 
as a mother might look at a sleeping child that had just 
passed the crisis of a dangerous illness. Of the bare 
chance that had snatched her from imminent death I 
would not allow myself to think. The horror of that 
moment was too fresh for the thought to be endurable. 
Instead I began to occupy myself with the practical 
question as to how she was to be got home. It was a 
long way to North Grove—some two miles I reckoned— 
too far for her to walk in her present weak state; and 
there was the fog. Unless it lifted it would be impos- 
sible for her to find her way; and I could give her no 
help, as I was a stranger to this locality. Nor was it by 
any means safe; for our enemy might still be lurking 
near, waiting for the opportunity that the fog would offer. 





138 THE D’'ARBLAY MYSTERY 


I was still turning over these difficulties when she 
opened her eyes and looked up at me a little shyly. 

“I’m afraid I’ve been rather a baby,” she said, “but 
I am much better now. Hadn’t I better get up?” 

“No,” I answered. ‘Lie quiet and rest. I am trying 
to think how you are to be got home. Didn't you say 
something about a caretaker ?” 

“Yes; a woman in the little house next door, which 
really belongs to the studio. Daddy used to leave the 
key with her at night, so that she could clean up. But 
I just fetch her in when I want her help. Why do you 
ask?” 

“Do you think she could get a cab for us?” 

“T am afraid not. There is no cab-stand anywhere 
near here. But I think I could walk, unless the fog is 
too thick. Shall we go and see what it is like?” | 

“T will go,” said I, rising. But she clung to my arm. 
“You are not to go alone,” she said, in sudden alarm. 
“He may be there still.” 

I thought it best to humour her, and accordingly helped 
her to rise. For a few moments she seemed rather un- 
steady on her feet, but soon she was able to walk, sup- 
ported by my arm, to the studio door, which I opened, 
and through which wreaths of vapour drifted in. But 
the fog was perceptibly thinner; and even as I was look- 
ing across the road at the now faintly visible houses, two 
spots of dull yellow light appeared up the road, and my 
ear caught the muffled sound of wheels. Gradually the 
lights grew brighter, and at length there stole out of the 
fog the shadowy form of a cab with a man leading the 
horse at a slow walk. Here seemed a chance of escape 
from our dilemma. | 





MARION’S PERIL 139 


“Go in and shut the door while I speak to the cabman,” 
said I, “He may be able to take us. I shall give four 
knocks when I come back.” 

She was unwilling to let me go, but I gently pushed 
her in and shut the door, and then advanced to meet the 
cab. A few words set my anxieties at rest, for it ap- 
peared that the cabman had to set down a fare a little 
way along the street, and was very willing to take a 
return fare, on suitable terms. As any terms would have 
been suitable to me under the circumstances the cabman 
was able to make a good bargain, and we parted with 
mutual satisfaction and a cordial au revoir. Then I 
steered back along the fence to the studio door, on which 
I struck four distinct knocks and announced myself 
vocally by name. Immediately, the door opened, and a 
hand drew me in by the sleeve. 

“T am so glad you have come back,” she whispered. “It 
was horrid to be alone in the lobby even for a few minutes. 
What did the cabman say ?” 

I told her the joyful tidings, and we at once made 
ready for our departure. In a minute or two the welcome 
glare of the cab-lamps reappeared, and when I had locked 
up the studio and pocketed the key, I helped her into the 
rather ramshackle vehicle. 

I don’t mind admitting that the cabman’s charges were 
extortionate ; but I grudged him never a penny. It was 
probably the slowest journey that I had ever made, but 
yet the funereal pace was all too swift. Half-ashamed 
as I was to admit it to myself, this horrible adventure 
was bearing sweet fruit to me in the unquestioned inti- 
macy that had been born in the troubled hour. Little 
enough was said; but I sat happily by her side, holding 


140 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


her uninjured hand in mine (on the pretence of keeping 
it warm), blissfully conscious that our sympathy and 
friendship had grown to something sweeter and more 
precious. 

“What are we to say to Arabella?” I asked. “I sup- 
pose she will have to be told?” 

“Of course she will,” replied Marion; “you shall tell 
her. But,” she added, in a lower tone, “you needn’t tell 
her everything—I mean what a baby I was and how you 
had to comfort and soothe me. She is as brave as a lion, 
and she thinks I am, too. So you needn’t undeceive her 
too much.” 

“T needn’t undeceive her at all,” said I, “because you 
are’; and we were still arguing this weighty question 
when the cab drew up at Ivy Cottage. I sent the cabman 
off, rejoicing, and then escorted Marion up the path to 
the door, where Miss Boler was waiting, paving, ap- 
parently heard the cab arrive. 

“Thank goodness!” she exclaimed. “I was wondering 
how on earth you would manage to get home.” Then 
she suddenly observed Marion’s bandaged hand, and 
uttered an exclamation of alarm. 

“Miss Marion has cut her hand rather badly,” I ex- 
plained. “We won't talk about it just now. I will tell 
you everything presently when you have put her to bed. 
Now I want some stuff to make dressings and bandages.” 

Miss Boler looked at me suspiciously, but made no 
comment. With extraordinary promptitude she produced 
a supply of linen, warm water, and other necessaries, and 
then stood by to watch the operation and give assistance. 

“Tt is a nasty wound,” I said, as I removed the ex- 





MARION’S PERIL I4I 


temporized dressing, “but not so bad as I feared. There 
will be no lasting injury.” 

I put on the permanent dressing and then exposed the 
wound on the arm, at the sight of which Miss Boler’s 
eyebrows went up. But she made no remark; and when 
a dressing had been put on this, too, she took charge of 
the patient to conduct her up to the bedroom. 

“TI shall come up and see that she is all right before 
I go,” said I, “and meanwhile, no questions, Arabella.” 

She cast a significant look at me over her shoulder 
and departed with her arm about the patient’s waist. 

The rites and ceremonies abovestairs were briefer than 
I had expected—perhaps the promised explanations had 
accelerated matters. At any rate, in a very few minutes 
Miss Boler bustled into the room and said: “You can 
go up aoe but don’ t stop to gossip. I am bursting with 
curiosity.” 

Thereupon I ascended to my lady’s chamber, which I 
entered as diffidently and reverentially as though such 
visits were not the commonplace of my professional life. 
As I approached the bed she heaved a little sigh of content 
and murmured : 

“What a fortunate girl Jam! To be petted and cared 
for and pampered in this way! Arabella is a perfect 
angel, and you, Dr. Gray 

“Oh, Marion!’’ I protested. “Not Dr. Gray.” 

“Well, then, Stephen,” she corrected, with a faint blush. 

“That is better. And what am I?” 

“Never mind,” she replied, very pink and smiling. “TI 
expect you know. If you don’t, ask Arabella when you 
go down.” 





142 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


“T expect she will do most of the asking,” saidI. “And 
I have strict orders not to stop to gossip, so let me see 
the bandages, and then I must go.” 

I made my inspection without undue hurry, and, hav- 
ing seen that all was well, I took her hand. 

“You are to stay here until | have seen you to-morrow 
morning, and you are to be a good girl and try not to 
think of unpleasant things.” 

“Yes; I will do everything that you tell me.” 

“Then I can go away happy. Good night, Marion.” 

“Good night, Stephen.” 

I pressed her hand and felt her fingers close on mine. 
Then I turned away, and with only a moment’s pause 
at the door for a last look at the sweet, smiling face, de- 
scended the stairs to confront the formidable Arabella. 

Of my cautious statement and her keen cross-examina- 
tion I will say nothing. I made the proceedings as short 
as was decent, for I wanted, if possible, to take counsel 
with Thorndyke. On my explaining this, the brevity of 
my account was condoned, and even my refusal of food. 

“But remember, Arabella,’ I said, as she escorted me 
to the gate, “she has had a very severe shock. ‘The less 
you say to her about ve affair for the present the genie 
will be her recovery.” 

With this warning I set forth through the rapidly 
thinning fog to catch the first conveyance that I could 
find to bear me southward. 


ea ee 







OE SE Oe Ne ae ae OE Le ee ae ae OF 


CHAPTER XI 
ARMS AND THE MAN 


Tue fog had thinned to a mere haze when the porter 
admitted me at the Inner Temple Gate, so that, as I 
passed the Cloisters and looked through into Pump-court 
I could see the lighted windows of the residents’ chambers 
at the far end. The sight of them encouraged me to hope 
that the chambers in King’s Bench-walk might throw out 
a similar hopeful gleam. Nor was I disappointed; and 
the warm glow from the windows of No. 5a sent me 
tripping up the stairs profoundly relieved, though a trifle 
abashed at the untimely hour of my visit. 

The door was opened by Thorndyke himself, who in- 
stantly cut short my apologies. 

“Nonsense, Gray!’ he exclaimed, shaking my hand. 
“It is no interruption at all. On the contrary, how beau- 
tiful upon the staircase are the feet of him that bringeth— 
well, what sort of tidings?” 

“Not good, I am afraid, sir.” 

“Well, let us have them. Come and sit by the fire.” 
He drew up an easy chair, and, having installed me in it 
and taken a critical look at me, invited me to proceed. 
I accordingly proceeded bluntly to inform him that an 
attempt had been made to murder Miss D’Arblay. 

“Ha!” he exclaimed. ‘These are bad tidings indeed! 
I hope she is not injured in any way.” 

I reassured him on this point, and gave him the details 
as to the patient’s condition, and he then asked: 

; 143 


144 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


“When did the attempt occur, and how did you hear 
of it?” 

“Tt happened this evening, and I was present.” 

“You were present!” he repeated, gazing at me in 
the utmost astonishment. “And what became of the 
assailant ?” 

“He vanished into the fog,” I replied. 

“Ah, yes. The fog. I had forgotten that. But now 
let us drop this question and answer method. Give me 
a narrative from the beginning, with the events in their 
proper sequence. And omit nothing, no matter how 
trivial.” | 

I took him at his word—up to a certain point. I de- : 
scribed my arrival at the studio, the search in the cup- 
board, the sinister interruption, the attack, and the un- 4 
availing attempt at pursuit. As to what befell thereafter ‘ 
I gave him a substantially complete account—with certain 
reservations—up to my departure from Ivy Cottage. : 

“Then you never saw the man at all?” P. 

“No, but Miss D’Arblay did;” and here I gave him j 
such details of the man’s appearance as I had been able 
to gather from Marion. 

“Tt is quite a vivid description,” he said, as he wrote 
down the details; ‘and now shall we have a look at that 
piece of the mould?” 

I disinterred it from my tobacco-pouch and handed it 
tohim. He glanced at it and then went to a cabinet, from 
a drawer in which he produced the little case containing 
Polton’s casts of the guinea and a box, which he placed cn 
the table and opened. From it he took a lump of mould- 
ing-wax and a bottle of powdered French chalk. Pinch- 
ing off a piece of the wax, he rolled it into a ball, dusted 


IL seed peee 


Sant dees 





ARMS AND THE MAN 145 


it lightly with the chalk powder, and pressed it with his 
thumb into the mould. It came away on his thumb, 
bearing a perfect impression of the inside of the mould. 

“That settles it,” said he, taking the obverse cast from 
the case and laying it on the table beside the wax 
“squeeze.” “The squeeze and the cast are identical. 
There is now no possible doubt that the electrotype guinea 
that was found in the pond was made by Julius D’Arblay. 
Probably it had been delivered by him to the murderer 
on the very evening of his death. So we are undoubtedly 
dealing with that same man. It is a most alarming 
situation.” 

“Tt would be alarming if it were any other man,” I 
remarked. 

“No doubt,” he agreed. “But there is something very 
special about this man. He is a criminal of a type that 
is almost unknown here, but is not uncommon in South 
European and Slav countries. You find him, too, in the 
United States, principally among the foreign-born or alien 
population. He is not a normal human being. He is an 
inveterate murderer, to whom a human life does not count 
at all. And this type of man continually grows more and 
more dangerous for two reasons: first, the murder habit 
becomes more confirmed with each crime; second, there is 
virtually no penalty for the succeeding murders, for the 
first one entails the death sentence, and fifty murders can 
involve no more. This man killed Van Zellen as a mere 
incident of a robbery. Then he appears to have killed 
D’Arblay to secure his own safety, and he is now at- 
tempting to kill Miss D’Arblay, apparently for the same 
reason. And he will kill you and he will kill me if our 
existence is inconvenient or dangerous to him. We must 


146 | THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


bear that in mind, and take the necessary measures.” 

“TI can’t imagine,” said I, “what motive he can have 
for wanting to kill Miss D’Arblay.” 

“Probably he believes that she knows something that 
would be dangerous to him; something connected with 
those moulds, or perhaps something else. We are rather 
in the dark. We don’t know for certain what it was he 
came to look for when he entered the studio, or whether 
or not he found what he wanted. But to return to the 
danger. It is obvious that he knows the Abbey-road 
district well, for he found his way to the studio in the 
fog. He may be living close by. There is no reason 
why he should not be. His identity is quite unknown.” 

“That is a horrid thought!” I exclaimed. 

“It is,’ he agreed; “‘but it is the assumption that we 
have to act upon. We must not leave a loop-hole un- 
watched. He mustn’t get another chance.” 

“No,” I concurred warmly; “he certainly must not— 
if we can help it. But it is an awful position. We carry 
that poor girl’s life in our hands, and there is always the 
possibility that we may be caught off our guard, just for 
a moment.” | 

He nodded gravely. “You are quite right, Gray. An 
awful responsibility rests on us. I am very unhappy about 
this poor young lady. Of course, there is the other side— 
but at present we are concerned with Miss D’Arblay’s 
safety.” 

“What other side is there?’ I demanded. 

“TJ mean,” he replied, “that if we can hold out, this 
man is going to deliver himself into our hands.” 

“What makes you think that?” I asked eagerly. 

“I recognize a familiar phenomenon,” he replied. “My 


ee ne een aI Peat TE en a ae ems 


a.) oe ates 


{ 
| 










ARMS AND THE MAN 147 


large experience and extensive study of crimes against the 
person have shown me that in the overwhelming majority 
of cases of obscure crimes the discovery has been brought 
about by the criminal’s own efforts to make himself safe. 
He is constantly trying to hide his tracks—and making 
fresh ones. Now this man is one of those criminals who 
won't let weil alone. He kills Van Zellen and disappears, 
leaving no trace. He seems to be quite safe. But he is 
not satisfied. He can’t keep quiet. He kills D’Arblay, he 
enters the studio, he tries to kill Miss D’Arblay; all to 
make himself more safe. And every time he moves he 
tells us something fresh about himself. If we can only 
wait and watch, we shall have him.” 

“What has he told us about himself this time?’ I 
asked. 

“We won’t go into that now, Gray. We have other 
business on hand. But you know all that I know as to 
the facts. If you will turn over those facts at your 
leisure, you will find that they yield some very curious 
and striking inferences.” 

I was about to press the question when the door opened 
and Mr. Polton appeared on the threshold. Observing 
me, he crinkled benevolently, and then, in answer to 
Thorndyke’s inquiring glance, said: “I thought I had 
better remind you, sir, that you have not had any supper.” 

“Dear me, Polton!” Thorndyke exclaimed, “now you 
mention it, I believe you are right. And I suspect that 
Dr. Gray is in the same case. So we place ourselves in 
your hands. Supper and pistols are what we want.” 

“Pistols, sir!’ exclaimed Polton, opening his eyes to 
an unusual extent and looking at us suspiciously. 

“Don’t be alarmed, Polton,” Thorndyke chuckled. “It 


148 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


isn’t a duel. I just want to go over our stock of pistols 
and ammunition.” 

At this I thought I detected a belligerent gleam in 
Polton’s eye, but even as I looked, he was gone. Not 
for long, however. In a couple of minutes he was back 
with a large hand-bag which he placed on the table and 
again retired. Thorndyke opened the bag and took out 
quite a considerable assortment of weapons—single 
pistols, revolvers, and automatics—which he laid out on 
the table, each with its box of appropriate cartridges. 

“T hate fire-arms!’’ he exclaimed as he viewed the col- 
lection distastefully. ‘They are dangerous things, and 
when it comes to business they are scurvy weapons. Any 
poltroon can pull a trigger. But we must put ourselves 
on equal terms with our opponent, who is certain to be 
provided. Which will you have? I recommend this Baby 
Browning for portability. Have you had any practice?” 

“Only target practice. But I am a fair shot with a 
revolver. I have never used an automatic.” 

“We will go over the mechanism after supper,” said he. 
“Meanwhile, I hear the approach of Polton and am con- 
scious of a voracious interest in what he is bringing. 
When did you feed last?” 

“T had tea at the studio about half-past four.” 

“My poor Gray!” he exclaimed, “you must be starving. 
I ought to have asked you sooner. However, here comes 
relief.”” He opened a folding table by the fire just as 
Polton entered with the tray, on which I was gratified to 
observe a good-sized dish-cover and a claret-jug. Polton 
rapidly laid the little table and then, whisking off the 
cover, retired with a triumphant crinkle. 

“You have a regular kitchen upstairs, I presume,” said 





ARMS AND THE MAN 149 


I, as we took our seats at the table, “as well as a labora- 
tory? And a pretty good cook, too, to judge by the 
results.”’ : 

Thorndyke chuckled. ‘The kitchen and the laboratory 
are one,” he replied, ‘and Polton is the cook. An un- 
commonly good cook, as you suggest, but his methods are 
weird. These cutlets were probably grilled in the cupel 
furnace, but I have known him to do a steak with the 
brazing-jet. There is nothing conventional about Polton. 
But whatever he does, he does to a finish; which is fortu- 
nate, because I thought of calling in his aid in our present 
difficulty.” 

I looked at him inquiringly, and he continued : “If Miss 
D’Arblay is to go on with her work, which she ought to, 
as it is her livelihood, she must be guarded constantly. 
I had considered applying to Inspector Follett, and we 
may have to later; but for the present it will be better 
for us to keep our own counsel and play our own hand. 
We have two objects in view. First—and paramount— 
is the necessity of securing Miss D’Arblay’s safety. But, 
second, we want to lay our hands on this man, not. to 
frighten him away, as we might do if we put the police 
on his track. When once we have him, her safety is 
secured for ever, whereas if he were merely scared away 
he would be an abiding menace. We have got to catch 
him, and at present he is catchable. Secure in his un- 
known identity, he is lurking within reach, ready to 
strike, but also ready to be pounced upon when we are 
ready to pounce. Let us keep him confident of his safety 
while we are gathering up the clues.” 

“H’m—yes,”’ I assented, without much enthusiasm. 
“What is it that you propose to do?” 


150 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


“Somebody,” he replied, “must keep watch over Miss 
D’Arblay from the moment when she leaves her house 
until she returns to it. How much time—if any—can 
you give up to this duty?” 

“My whole time,” I answered promptly. “I shall let 
everything else go.” 

“Then,” said he, “I propose that you and Polton re- 
lieve one another on duty. It will be better than for you 
to be there all the time.”’ 

I saw what he meant, and agreed at once. The con- 
ventions must be respected as far as possible. 

“But,” I suggested, “isn’t Polton rather a light- 
weight—if it should come to a scrap, I mean?” 

“Don’t undervalue small men, even physically,” he re- 
plied. “They are commonly better built than big men 
and more enduring and energetic. Polton is remarkably 
strong, and he has the pluck of a bulldog. But we must 
see how he is placed as regards work.” 

The question was put to him and the position of affairs 
explained when he came down to clear the table; where- 
upon it appeared (from his own account) that he was 
absolutely without occupation of any kind and pining for 
something to do. Thorndyke laughed incredulously but 
did not contest this outrageous and barefaced untruth, 
merely remarking: | A 

“T am afraid it will be rather an idle time for you.” 

“Oh, no, it won’t, sir,” Polton assured him emphati- 
cally. “I’ve always wanted to learn something about 
sculptor’s moulding and wax-casting, but I’ve never had 
a chance. Now [I shall have. And that opportunity isn’t 
going to be wasted.” : 

Thorndyke regarded his assistant with a twinkling eye. 


es mata a er 
















ARMS AND THE MAN | 151 


“So it was mere self-seeking that made you so enthusi- 
astic,’ he said. “But you are quite a good moulder 
already.” 

“Not a sculptor’s moulder, sir,” replied Polton; “and 
I know nothing about wax-work. But I shall, before I 
have been there many days.” 

“JT am sure you will,” said Thorndyke. “Miss 
D’Arblay will have an apprentice and journeyman in one. 
You will be able to give her quite a lot of help; which 
will be valuable just now while her hand is disabled. 
When do you think she will be able to go back to work, 
Gray?” 

“T can’t say. Not to-morrow certainly. Shall I send 
you a report when I have seen her?” 

“Do,” he replied; “or, better still, come in to-morrow 
evening and give me the news. So, Polton, we sha’n’t 
want you for another day or so.” 

“Ah!” said Polton, “then I shall be able to finish that 
recording-clock before I go; upon which Thorndyke 
and I laughed aloud and Polton, his mendacity thus un- 
masked, retired with the tray, crinkling but unabashed. 

The short remainder of the evening—or rather, of the 
night—was spent in the study of the mechanism and mode 
of use of automatic pistols. When I finally bestowed the 
“Baby,” fully loaded, in my hip-pocket, and rose to go, 
Thorndyke sped me on my way with a few words of 
warning and advice. 

“Be constantly on your guard, Gray. You are going 
to make a bitter enemy of a man who knows no scruples; 
indeed, you have done so already, and something tells me 
that he is aware of it. Avoid all solitary or unfrequented 
places. Keep to main thoroughfares and well-lighted 


152 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


streets, and maintain a diligent look-out for any sus- 
picious appearances. You have said truly that we carry 
Miss D’Arblay’s life in our hands, But to preserve her 
life we must preserve our own; which we should probably 
prefer to do in any case. Don’t get jumpy—I don't 
much think you will; but keep your attention alert and 
your weather eye-lid lifting.” 

With these encouraging words and a hearty hand-shake, 
he let me out and stood watching me as I descended the 
stairs, 





CHAPTER XII 
A DRAMATIC DISCOVERY 


AxsoutT eleven o’clock in the forenoon of the third day _ 
after the terrible events of that unforgettable night of 
the great fog, Marion and I drew up on our bicycles 
opposite the studio door. She was now outwardly quite 
recovered, excepting as to her left hand, but I noticed 
that, as I inserted the key into the door, she cast a quick, 
nervous glance up and down the road; and as we passed 
through the lobby, she looked down for one moment at 
the great blood-stain on the floor and then hastily averted 
her face. 

“Now,” I said, assuming a brisk, cheerful tone, “we 
must get to work. Mr. Polton will be here in half an 
hour and we must be ready to put his nose on the grind- 
stone at once.” 

“Then your nose will have to go on first,” she replied 
with a smile, “and so will mine, with two raw apprentices 
to teach and an important job waiting to be done. But, 
dear me! what a lot of trouble I am giving!” 

“Nothing of the kind, Marion,’ I exclaimed; “you are 
a public benefactor. Polton is delighted at the chance 
to come here and enlarge his experience, and as for 
me——”’ 

“Well? As for you?” She looked at me half-shyly, 
half-mischievously. “Goon. You've stopped at the most 
interesting point.” 

153 


154 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


“T think I had better not,” said I. “We don’t want 
the forewoman to get too uppish.” 

She laughed softly, and when I had helped her out of 
her overcoat and rolled up the sleeve of her one service- 
able arm, I went out to the lobby to stow away the bicycles 
and lock the outer door. When I returned, she had got 
out from the cupboard a large box of flaked gelatine and 
a massive spouted bucket which she was filling at the 
sink, 

“Hadn’t you better explain to me what we are going 
to do?” I asked. 

“Oh, explanations are of no use,” she replied. “You 
just do as I tell you and then you will know all about it. 
This isn’t a school; it’s a workshop. When we have got 
the gelatine in to soak, I will show you how to make a 
plaster case.” 

“It seems to me,” I retorted, “that my instructress has 
graduated in the academy of Squeers. ‘W-i-n-d-e-r 
winder; now go and clean one.’ Isn’t that the method?” 

“Apprentices are not allowed to waste time in 
wrangling,” she rejoined, severely. “Go and put on 
one of Daddy’s blouses and I will set you to work.” 

This practical method of instruction justified itself 
abundantly. The reasons for each process emerged at 
once as soon as the process was completed. And it was 
withal a pleasant method, for there is no comradeship 
so Sympathetic as the comradeship of work; nor any which 
begets so wholesome and friendly an intimacy. But 
though there were playful and frivolous interludes—as 
when the forewoman’s working hand became encrusted 


with clay and had to be cleansed with a sponge by the ap- | q | 
prentice—we worked to such purpose that by the time 


5 
a ¥ 
p 
q 
- 
« 
is 
j 











a a a aac Me i ee at ie tl 


A DRAMATIC DISCOVERY _ 155 


Mr. Polton was due, the plaster bust (of which a wax 
replica was to be made) was- firmly fixed on the work- 
table on a clay foundation and surrounded by a care- 
fully levelled platform of clay, in which it was embedded 
to half its thickness, I had just finished smoothing the 
surface when there came a knock at the outer door; on 
which Marion started violently and clutched my arm. 
But she recovered in a moment, and exclaimed in a tone 
of vexation: 

“How silly Iam! Of course, it is Mr. Polton.”’ 

It was. I found him on the threshold in rapt con- 
templation of the knocker, and looking rather like an 
archdeacon on tour. He greeted me with a friendly 
crinkle and I then conducted him into the studio and pre- 
sented him to Marion, who shook his hand warmly and 
thanked him so profusely for coming to her aid that he 
was quite abashed. However, he did not waste time in 
compliments, but, producing an apron from his hand-bag, 
took off his coat, donned the apron, rolled up a sleeves, 
and beamed inquiringly at the bust. 

“We are going to make a plaster case for the gelatine 
mould, Mr. Polton,’’ Marion explained, and proceeded to 
a few preliminary directions, to which the new apprentice 
listened with respectful attention. But she had hardly 
finished when he fell to work with a quiet, unhurried 
facility that filled me with envy. He seemed to know 
where to find everything. He discovered the waste-paper 
with which to cover the model to prevent the clay from 
sticking to it, he pounced on the clay bin at the first shot, 
and when he had built up the shape for the case, found 
the plaster-bin, mixing-bowl, and spoon as if he had been 
born and bred in the workshop, stopping only for a 


156 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


moment to test the condition of the gelatine in the bucket. 

“Mr. Polton,” Marion said, after watching him for a 
while, “you are an impostor—a dreadful impostor. You 
pretend to come here as an improver, but you really know 
all about gelatine moulding; now, don’t you?” 

Polton admitted apologetically that he “had done a 
little in that way. But,” he added, in extenuation, “I 
have never done any work in wax. And, talking of wax, 
the doctor will be here presently.” 

“Dr. Thorndyke?”’ Marion asked, 

“Ves, Miss. He had some business in Holloway, so 
he thought he would come on here to make your acquaint- 
ance and take a look at the premises.” 

“All the same, Mr. Polton,” said I, “I don’t quite see 
the connexion between Dr. Thorndyke and wax.” 

He crinkled with a slightly embarrassed air and ex- 
plained that he must have been thinking of something that 
the doctor had said to him; but his explanations were cut 
short by a knock at the door. 

“That is his knock,” said Polton; and he and I to- 
gether proceeded to open the door, when I inducted the 
distinguished visitor into the studio and presented him 
to the presiding goddess. I noticed that each of them 
inspected the other with some curiosity, and that the first 
impressions appeared to be mutually satisfactory, though 
Marion was at first a little overawed by Thorndyke’s im- 
pressive personality. 

“You mustn’t let me interrupt your work,” the latter: 
said, when the preliminary politenesses had been ex- 


changed. “I have just come to fill in Dr. Gray’s outline 


sketches with details of my own observing. I wanted 





é 


A DRAMATIC DISCOVERY 157 


to see you—to convert a name into an actual person, to 
see the studio for the same reason, and to get as precise 
a description as possible of the man whom we are trying 
toidentify. Will it distress you to recall his appearance ?” 

She had turned a little pale at the mention of her late 
assailant, but she answered stoutly enough: “Not at all; 
besides, it is necessary.” 

“Thank you,” said he; “then I will read out the de- 
scription that I had from Dr. Gray, and we will see if 
you can add anything to it.” 

He produced a note-book, from which he read out the 
particulars that I had given him, at the conclusion of 
which he looked at her inquiringly. 

“T think that is all that I remember,” she said. ‘““There 
was very little light, and I really only glanced at him.” 

Thorndyke looked at her reflectively. “It is a fairly 
full description,” said he. “Perhaps the nose is a little 
sketchy. You speak of a hooked nose with a high bridge. 
Was it a curved nose of the Jewish type, or a squarer, 
Roman nose?” 

“Tt was rather square in profile; a Wellington nose, 
but with a rather broad base. Like a vulture’s beak, and 
very large.”’ 

“Was it actually a hook-nose? I mean, had it a 
drooping tip?” 

“Yes, the tip projected downwards and it was rather 
sharp—not bulbous.” 

“And the chin? Should you call it a pronounced or 
a retreating chin?” 

“Oh, it was quite a projecting chin, rather of the 
Wellington type.” 


e 


158 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


Thorndyke reflected once more; then, having jotted 
down the answers to his questions, he closed the book and 
returned it to his pocket. 

“Tt is a great thing to have a trained eye,” he re- 
marked, “In your one glance you saw more than an 
ordinary person would have noted in a leisurely inspec- 
tion in a good light. You have no doubt that you would 
know this man again if you should meet him?” 

“Not the slightest,” she replied, with a shudder. “I 
can see him now if I shut my eyes.” 

“Well,” he rejoined, with a smile, “I wouldn’t recall 
that unpleasant vision too often, if I were you. And 
now, may I, without disturbing you further, just take a 
look round the premises?” 

“But, of course, Dr. Thorndyke,” she replied. “Do 
exactly what you please.” 

With this permission, he drew away and stood for 
some moments letting a very reflective eye travel round 
the interior; and meanwhile I watched him curiously and 
wondered what he had really come for. His first pro- 
ceeding was to walk slowly round the studio and examine 
closely, one by one, all the casts which hung on pegs. : 
Next, in the same systematic manner, he inspected all the 
shelves, mounting a chair to examine the upper ones. It 
was after scrutinizing one of the latter that he turned 
towards Marion and asked: | 

“Have you moved these casts lately, Miss D’Arblay?”’ 

“No,” she replied; “so far as I know, they have not 
been touched for months.” 

“Some one has moved them within the last day or 
two,” said he. “Apparently the nocturnal explorer went 
over the shelves as well as the cupboard.” 





A DRAMATIC DISCOVERY 159 


“I wonder why,’ said Marion. “There were no 
moulds on the shelves.” 

Thorndyke made no rejoinder, but as he stood on the 
chair he once more ran his eye round the studio. Sud- 
denly he stepped down from the chair, picked it up, car- 
ried it over to the tall cupboard, and once more mounted 
it. His stature enabled him easily to look over the cornice 
on to the top of the cupboard, and it was evident that 
something there had attracted his attention. 

“Here is a derelict of some sort,” he announced, “which 
certainly has not been moved for some months.” As he 
spoke, he reached over the cornice into the enclosed 
space and lifted out an excessively grimy plaster mask, 
from which he blew the thick coating of dust, and then 
stood for a while looking at it thoughtfully. 

“A striking face this,” he remarked, “but not attrac- 
tive. It rather suggests a Russian or Polish Jew; do you 
recognize the person, Miss D’Arblay ?” 

He stepped down from the chair, and handed the mask 
to Marion, who had advanced to look at it, and who now 
held it in her hand regarding it with a frown of 
perplexity. 

“This is very curious,” she said. “I thought I knew 
all the casts that have been made here. But I have never 
seen this one before, and I don’t know the face. I wonder 
who he was. It doesn’t look like an English face, but 
I should hardly have taken it for the face of a Jew, with 
that rather small and nearly straight nose.” 

“The East-European Jews are not a very pure breed,” 
said Thorndyke. ‘You will see many a face of that type 
in Whitechapel High-street and the Jewish quarters 
hard by.” 


160 THE D’ARBLAY Wiysoie. 


At this point, deserting the work-table, I came and 
looked over Marion’s shoulder at the mask which she was 
holding at arm’s length. And then I got a surprise of 
the most singular kind, for I recognized the face at a 
glance. 

“What is it, Gray?” asked Thorndyke, who had ap- 
parently observed my astonishment. 

“This is the most extraordinary coincidence!’ I ex- 
claimed. “Do you remember my speaking to you about 
a certain Mr. Morris?” 

“The dealer in antiques?” he queried. 

“Yes. Well, this is his face.” 

He regarded me for some moments with a strangely 
intent expression. Then he asked: “When you say that 
this is Morris’ face, do you mean that it resembles his 
face, or that you identify it positively ?”’ 

“T identify it positively. I can swear to the identity. 
It isn’t a face that one would forget. And if any doubt 
were possible, there is this hare-lip scar, which you can 
see quite plainly on the cast.” 

“Yes, I noticed that. And Morris has a hare-lip scar, 
hasn’t he?” 

“Yes; and in the same position and of the same char- 
acter. I think you can take it as a fact that this cast was 
undoubtedly taken from Morris’ face.” 

“Which,” said Thorndyke, “is a really important fact 
and one that is worth looking into.” 

“In what way is it important?” I asked. 

“In this respect,” he answered. ‘This man, Morris, 
is unknown to Miss D’Arblay; but he was not unknown 
to her father. Here we have evidence that Mr. D’Arblay 
had dealings with people of whom his daughter had no 





A DRAMATIC DISCOVERY 161 


knowledge. The circumstances of the murder made it 
clear that there must be such people; but here we have 
proof of their existence, and we can give to one of them 
‘a local habitation and a name.’ And you will notice that 
this particular person is a dealer in curios and possibly 
in more questionable things. There is just a hint that 
he may have had some rather queer acquaintances.” 

“He seemed to have had rather a fancy for plaster 
masks,’ I remarked. “I remember that he had one in 
his shop window.” 

“Did your father make many life or death masks as 
commissions, Miss D’Arblay?”” Thorndyke asked. 

“Only one or two, so far as I know,” she replied. 
_ “There is very little demand for portrait masks nowadays. 
Photography has superseded them.” 

“That is what I should have supposed,” said he. ‘This 
would be just a chance commission. However, as it 
establishes the fact that this man Morris was in some 
way connected with your father, I think I should like to 
have a record of his appearance. May I take this mask 
away with me to get a photograph of it made? I will 
take great care of it, and let you have it back safely.” 

“Certainly,” replied Marion; “but why not keep it, 
if it is of any interest to you? I have no use for it.” 

“That is very good of you,” said he; “and if you will 
give me some rag and paper to pack it in, I will take 
myself off, and leave you to finish your work in peace.” 

Marion took the cast from him, and, having procured 
some rag and paper, began very carefully to wrap it up. 
While she was thus engaged, Thorndyke stood, letting his 
eye travel once more round the studio. 

“T see,” he remarked, “that you have quite a number 


162 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


of masks moulded from life, or death. Do I understand 
that they were not commissions ?” 

“Very few of them were,’’ Marion replied. “Most 
of them were taken from professional models, but some 
from acquaintances whom my father bribed with the 
gift of a duplicate mask.” 

“But why did he make them? They could not have 
been used for producing wax faces for the show figures; 
for you could hardly turn a shop window into a wax- 
work exhibition with lifelike portraits of real persons.” 

“No,” Marion agreed, “that wouldn’t do at all. These 
masks were principally used for reference as to details of 
features when my father was modelling a head in clay. | 
But he did sometimes make moulds for the wax from 
these masks, only he obliterated the likeness, so that the 
wax face was not a portrait.” 

“By working on the wax, I suppose?” . 

“Yes; or more usually by altering the mask before 
making the mould. It is quite easy to alter a face. Let 
me show you.” 

She lifted one of the masks from its peg and laid it 
on the table. { 

“You see,” she said, “that this is the face of a young 
girl—one of my father’s models. It is a round, smooth, 
smiling face, with a very short, weak chin and a pro- 
jecting upper lip. We can change all that in a moment.” 

She took up a lump of clay and, pinching off a pellet, 
laid it on the right cheek-bone and spread it out. Having 
treated the other side in the same manner, she rolled an 
elongated pellet, with which she built up the lower lip. — 
_ Then, with a larger pellet, she enlarged the chin down- 
wards and forwards, and, having added a small touch 





A DRAMATIC DISCOVERY 163 


to each of the eyebrows, she dipped a sponge in thick 
clay-water, or “slip,” and dabbed the mask all over to 
bring it to a uniform colour. | 

“There,” she said, “it is very rough, but you see what 
I mean.” 

The result was truly astonishing. The weak, chubby, 
girlish face had been changed by these few touches into 
the strong, coarse face of a middle-aged woman. 

“It really is amazing!’ I exclaimed. “It is a perfectly 
different face. I wouldn’t have believed that such a thing 
was possible.” 

“It is a most striking and interesting demonstration,” 
said Thorndyke. “But yet I don’t know that we need 
be so surprised. If we consider that of all the millions 
of persons in this island alone each one has a face which 
is different from any other, and yet that all those faces 
are made up of the same anatomical parts, we realize 
that the differences which distinguish one face from an- 
other must be excessively subtle and minute.”’ 

“We do,” agreed Marion, “especially when we are 
modelling a portrait bust and the likeness won’t come 
although every part appears to be correct and all the 
measurements seem to agree. A true likeness is an ex- 
traordinarily subtle and exact piece of work.” 

“So I have always thought,” said Thorndyke. “But 
I mustn’t delay you any longer. May I have my precious 
parcel ?” 

Marion handed him the not very presentable bundle with 
a smile and a bow. He then took his leave of her and I 
escorted him to the door, where he paused for a moment 
as we shook hands. 


164 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


“You are bearing my advice in mind, I hope, Gray,” 
he said. 

“As to keeping clear of unfrequented places? Yes, I 
have been very careful in that respect, and I never go 
abroad without the pistol. It is in my hip-pocket' now. 
But I have seen no sign of anything to justify so much 
caution. I doubt if our friend is even aware of my 
existence, and in any case, I don’t see that he has any- 
thing against me, excepting as Miss D’Arblay’s watch- 
dog.” 

“Don’t be too sure, Gray,” he rejoined earnestly. 
“There may be certain little matters that you have over- 
looked. At any rate, don’t relax your caution, Give 
all unfrequented places a wide berth and keep a bright 
look-out.” 

With this final warning, he turned away and strode off 
down the road while I re-entered the studio just in time 
to see Polton mix the first bowl of plaster, as Marion, 
having washed the clay from the transformed mask, 
dried it and rehung it on its peg. 





CHAPTER XIII 
A NARROW ESCAPE 


THE statement that I had made to Thorndyke was 
perfectly true in substance; but it was hardly as signifi- 
cant in fact as the words implied. I had, it is true, in my 
journeyings abroad, restricted myself to well-beaten thor- 
oughfares. But then I had had no occasion to do other- 
wise. Until Polton’s arrival on the scene my time had 
been wholly taken up in keeping a watch on Marion; and 
so it would have continued if I had followed my own 
inclination. But at the end of the first day’s work she 
intervened resolutely. 

“J am perfectly ashamed,” she said, “to occupy the 
time of two men, both of whom have their own affairs 
to attend to, though I can’t tell you how grateful I am 
to you for sacrificing yourselves.” 

“We are acting under the doctor’s orders, Miss,” said 
Polton, thereby, in his opinion, closing the subject. 

“You mean Dr. Thorndyke’s?’ said Marion, not 
realizing—or not choosing to realize—that, to Polton, 
there was no other doctor in the world who counted. 

“Yes, Miss. The doctor’s orders must be carried out.” 

“Of course they must,” she agreed warmly, “since 
he has been so very good as to take all this trouble about 
my safety. But there is no need for both of you to be 
here together. Couldn’t you arrange to take turns on 


duty—alternate days or a half-day each? I hate the 
wf 165 


166 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


thought that I am wasting the whole of both your times.” 
I did not look on the suggestion with favour, for I was 
reluctant to yield up to any man—even to Polton—the 
privilege of watching over the safety of one who was so 
infinitely dear to me. Nor was Polton much less un- 
willing to agree, for he loathed to leave a piece of work 
uncompleted. However, Marion refused to accept our 
denials (as is the way of women), and the end of it was 
that Polton and I had to arrange our duties in half-day 
shifts, changing over at the end of each week, the first 
spell allotting the mornings to me and the latter half of the 
day—with the duty of seeing Marion home—to him. 
Thus, during each of the following six working days, 
I found myself with the entire afternoon and evening 
free. The former I usually spent at the hospital, but in 


the evenings, feeling too unsettled for study, I occupied - 


myself very pleasantly with long walks through the in- 
exhaustible streets, extending my knowledge of the town 
and making systematic explorations of such distant re- 
gions as Mile End, Kingsland, Dalston, Wapping, and 
the Borough. 
~ One evening I bethought me of my promise to look 
in on Usher. I did not find myself yearning for his 
society, but a promise is a promise. Accordingly, when 
I had finished my solitary dinner, I set forth from my 
lodgings in Camden-square and made a bee-line for 
Clerkenwell: so far, that is to say, as was possible, while 


keeping to the wider streets. For in this respect, I fol- 


lowed Thorndyke’s instructions to the letter, though, as to 
the other matter—that of keeping a bright look-out—I 
was less attentive, my mind being much more occupied 
with thoughts of Marion (who would, just now, be on 















A NARROW ESCAPE 167 


her way home under Polton’s escort) than with any 
considerations of my own personal safety. Indeed, to 
tell the truth, I was inclined to be more than a little 
sceptical as to the need for these extraordinary pre- 
cautions. 

I found Usher in the act of bowing out the last of the 
“evening consultations,’ and was welcomed by him with 
enthusiasm. 

“Delighted to see you, old chap!’’ he exclaimed, shak- 
ing my hand warmly. “It is good of you to drop in on 
an old fossil like me. Didn’t much think you would. I 
suppose you don’t often come this way?” | 

“No,” I replied. “It is rather off my beat. I’ve fin- 
ished with Hoxton—for the present, at any rate.” 

“So have IJ,” said Usher, “since poor old Crile went 
off to the better land.” 

“Crile?” I repeated. “Who was he?” 

“Don’t you remember my telling you about his fu- 
neral, when they had those Sunday-school kids yowling 
hymns round the grave? That was Mr. Crile—Christian 
name, Jonathan.” 

“T remember ; but I didn’t realize that he was a Hoxton 
aristocrat.” 

“Well, he was. Fifty-two, Field-street was his earthly 
abode. JI used to remember it by the number of weeks 
in the year. And glad enough I was when he hopped off 
his perch, for his confounded landlady, a Mrs. Pepper, 
would insist on fixing the times for my visits, and deuced 
inconvenient times, too. Between four and six on Tues- 
days and Fridays. I hate patients who turn your visits 
into appointments. Upsets your whole visiting-list.” 

“It seems to be the fashion in Hoxton,” I remarked. 


168 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


“T had to make my visits at appointed times, too. It 
would have been frightfully inconvenient if I had been 
busy. Is it often done?” 

“They will always do it if you let em. Of course, it 
is a convenience to a woman who doesn’t keep a servant, 
to know what time the doctor is going to call; but it 
doesn’t do to give way to ’em.” 

I assented to this excellent principle, noting, however, 
that he seemed to have “given way to ’em,” all the same. 

As we had been talking, we had gradually drifted 
from the surgery up a flight of stairs to a shabby, cosy 
little room on the first floor, where a cheerful fire was 
burning and a copper kettle on a trivet purred contentedly 
and breathed forth little clouds of steam. Usher inducted 
me into a large easy chair, the depressed seat of which 
suggested its customary use by an elphant of sedentary 
habits, and produced from a cupboard a spirit decanter, 
a high-shouldered Dutch gin-bottle, a sugar-basin, and 
a couple of tumblers and sugar-crushers. 

“Whisky or Hollands?” he demanded; and, as curi- 
osity led me to select the latter, he commented: “That's 
right, Gray. Good stuff, Hollands. Touches up the 
cubical epithelium—what! Iam rather partial to a drop 
of Hollands.” 

It was no empty profession. The initial dose made 
me open my eyes; and that was only a beginning. Ina 
twinkling, as it seemed, his tumbler was empty and the 
collaboration of the bottle and the copper kettle was re- 
peated. And so it went on for nearly an hour, until I 
began to grow quite uneasy, though without any visible 
cause, so far as Usher was concerned. He did not turn 
a hair (he hadn’t very many to turn, for that matter, 


A NARROW ESCAPE 169 


but I speak figuratively). The only effect that I could 
observe was an increasing fluency of speech with a tend- 
ency to discursiveness; and I must admit that his con- 
versation was highly entertaining. But his evident in- 
tention to “make a night of it” set me planning to make 
my escape without appearing to slight his hospitality. 
How I should have managed it, unaided by the direct 
interposition of Providence, I cannot guess: for his con- 
versation had now taken the form of an interminable 
sentence punctuated by indistinguishable commas; but in 
the midst of this steadily flowing stream of eloquence 
the outer silence was rent by the sudden jangling of a 
bell. 

Usher stopped short, stared at me solemnly, deliberately 
emptied his tumbler, and stood up. 

“Night bell, ol’ chappie,” he explained. “Got to go 
out. But don’t you disturb yourself. Back in a few 
minutes. Soon polish ’em off.” 

“Tl walk round with you as far as your patient’s 
house,” said I, “and then I shall have to get home. It is 
past ten and I have a longish walk to Camden-square.”’ 

He was disposed to argue the point, but another violent 
jangling cut his protests short and sent him hurrying 
down the stairs with me close at his heels. A couple of 
minutes later we were out in the street, following in the 
wake of a hurrying figure; and, looking at Usher as he 
walked sedately at my side, with his top-hat, his whiskers, 
and his inevitable umbrella, I had the feeling that all 
those jorums of Hollands had been consumed in vain. 
In appearance, in manner, in speech, and in gait, he was 
just his normal self, with never a hint of any change 
from the status quo ante bellum. 


170 THE D'’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


Our course led us into the purlieus of St. John Sireet- 
road, where we presently turned into a narrow, winding, 
and curiously desolate little street, along which we pro- 
ceeded for a few hundred yards, when our “fore-runner”’ 
halted at a door into which he inserted a latch-key. When 
we arrived at the open door, inside which a shadowy 
figure was lurking, Usher stopped and held out his hand. 

“Good night, old chap,” he said. “Sorry you-can't 
come back with me. If you keep straight on and turn 
to the left at the cross-roads you will come out presently 
into the King’s Cross-road. Then you'll know your 
way. So long.” 

He turned into the dark passage, the door was closed, 
and I went on my way. 

The little meandering street was singularly silent and 
deserted; and its windings cut off the light from the 
scanty street-lamps so that stretches of it were in almost 
total darkness. As I strode forward, the echoes of my 
footfalls resounded with hollow reverberations which 
smote my ear—and ought to have smitten my conscience 
—causing me to wonder, with grim amusement, what 
Thorndyke would have said if he could have seen me 
thus setting his instructions at defiance. Indeed, I was 
so far sensible of the impropriety of my being in such a 
place at such an hour that I was about to turn to take a 
look back along the street; but at the very moment that I 
halted within a few feet of a street-lamp, something struck 
the brim of my hat with a sharp, weighty blow like the 
stroke of a hammer, and I heard a dull thud from the 
lamp-post. 

In an instant I spun round, mighty fierce, whipping 
out my pistol, cocking it, and pointing it down the street 





A NARROW. ESCAPE I7I 


as I raced back towards the spot from whence the missile 
had appeared to come. There was not a soul in sight nor 
any sound of movement, and the shallow doorways 
seemed to offer no possible hiding place. But some 
thirty yards back I came suddenly on a narrow open- 
ing like an empty doorway, but actually the entrance 
to a covered alley not more than three feet wide 
and as dark as a pocket. This was evidently the 
ambush (which I had passed, like a fool, without ob- 
serving it), and I halted beside it, with my pistol still 
pointed, listening intently and considering what I had 
better do. My first impulse had been to charge into the 
alley, but a moment’s reflection showed the futility of such 
a proceeding. Probably my assailant had made off by 
some well-known outlet; but in any case it would be sheer 
insanity for me to plunge into that pitch-dark passage. 
For if he were still lurking there he would be invisible to 
me, whereas I should be a clear silhouette against the dim 
light of the street. Moreover, I had seen no one, and I 
could not shoot at any chance stranger whom I might 
find there. Reluctantly I recognized that there was noth- 
ing for it but to retreat cautiously and be more careful 
in future. 

My retirement would have looked an odd proceeding 
to an observer, if there had been one, for I had to retreat 
crab-wise in order that I might keep the entrance of the 
alley covered with my pistol and yet see where I was 
going. When I reached the lamp-post I scanned the area 
of lighted ground beneath it, and, almost at the first 
glance, perceived an object like a largish marble lying 
in the road. It proved, when I picked it up, to be a leaden 
ball, like an old-fashioned musket-ball, with one flattened 


172 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


side, which had prevented it from rolling away from the 
spot where it had fallen. I dropped it into my pocket 
and resumed my masterly retreat until, at length, the 
cross-roads came into view. Then I quickened my pace, 
and as I reached the corner put away my pistol after 
slipping in the safety catch. 

Once more out in the lighted and frequented main 
streets, my thoughts were free to turn over this extraor- 
dinary experience. But I did not allow them to divert 
me from a very careful look-out. All my scepticism 
was gone now. I realized that Thorndyke had not been 
making mere vague guesses, but that he had clearly fore- 
seen that something of this kind would probably happen. 
That was, to me, the most perplexing feature of this 
incomprehensible affair. 

I turned it over in my mind again and again, and 
could make nothing of it. I could see no adequate reason 
why this man should want to make away with me. True, 
I was Marion’s protector; but that—even if he were 
aware of it—did not seem an adequate reason. Indeed, 
I could not see why he was seeking to make away with 


her—nor, even, was it clear to me that there had been a — 


reasonable motive for murdering her father. But as 
to myself, I seemed to be out of the picture altogether. 


The man had nothing to fear from me or to gain by my 


death, | 
That was how it appeared to me; and yet I saw plainly 
that I must be mistaken, There must be something be- 
hind all this—something that was unknown to me but 
was known to Thorndyke. What could it be? I found 
myself unable to make any sort of guess. In the end, 





A NARROW ESCAPE 173 


I decided to call on Thorndyke the following evening, 
report the incident, and see if I could get any enlighten- 
ment from him. : 

The first part of this programme I carried out. suc- 
cessfully enough, but the second presented more difficul- 
ties. | 

Thorndyke was not a very communicative man, and 
a perfectly impossible one to pump. What he chose to 
tell he told freely; and beyond that, no amount of in- 
genuity could extract the faintest shadow of a hint. 

“T am afraid I am disturbing you, Sir,” I said in 
some alarm, as I noted a portentous heap of documents 
on the table. 

“No,” he replied. “I have nearly finished, and I shall 
treat you as a friend, and keep you waiting while I do 
the little that is left.” He turned to his papers and took 
up his pen, but paused to cast one of his quick, pene- 
trating glances at me. 

“Has anything fresh happened?” he asked. 

“Our unknown friend has had a pot at me,” I an- 
swered. “That is all.” 

- He laid down his pen, and leaning back in his chair, 
demanded particulars. I gave him an account of what 
had happened on the preceding night, and, taking the 
leaden ball from my pocket, laid it on the table. He 
picked it up, examined it curiously, and then placed it on 
the letter balance. 

“Just over half an ounce,” he said. “It is a mercy 
it missed your head. With that weight and the velocity 
indicated by the flattening, it would have dropped you 
insensible with a fractured skull.” 


174 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


“And then he would have come along and put the 
finishing touches, I suppose. But I wonder how he shot 
the thing. Could he have used an air gun?” 

Thorndyke shook his head. “An air gun that would 
discharge a ball of that weight would make quite a loud 
report, and you say you heard nothing. You are quite 
sure of that, by the way?” 

“Perfectly. The place was as silent as the grave.” 

“Then he must have used a catapult; and an uncom- 
monly efficient weapon it is in skilful hands, and as 
portable as a pistol. You mustn’t give him another 
chance, Gray.” 

“IT am not going to, if I can help it. But what the 
deuce does the fellow want to pot at me for? It is a 
most mysterious thing. Do you understand what it is all 
about, Sir?” 

“T do not,” he replied. “My knowledge of the facts 
of this case is nearly all second-hand knowledge, derived 
from you. You know all that I know and probably 
more.” 

“That is all very well, Sir,” said I; “but you foresaw 
that this was likely to happen. I didn’t. Therefore you 
must know more about the case than I do.” 

He chuckled softly. “You are confusing knowledge 
and inference,” said he. “We had the same facts, but 
our inferences were not the same. It is just a matter 
of experience. You haven’t squeezed out of the facts as 
much as they are capable of yielding. Come, now, Gray; 
while | am finishing my work you shall look over my 
notes of this case, and then you should take a sort of 
bird’s-eye view of the whole case, and see if anything 
new occurs to you. And you must add to those notes 


b 





A NARROW ESCAPE 175 


that this man has been at the enormous trouble of stalk- 
ing you continuously, that he shadowed you to Usher’s, 
that he waited patiently for you to come out, that he fol- 
lowed you most skilfully, and took instant advantage 
of the first opportunity that you gave him. You might 
also note that he did not elect to overtake you and make 
a direct attack on you, as he did on Miss D’Arblay. 
Note those facts, and consider what their significance 
may be. And now just go through this little dossier. 
It won't take you many minutes.” 

He took out of a drawer a small portfolio, on the cover 
of which was written, “J. D’Arblay, dec’d.,’”’ and, passing 
it to me, returned to his documents. I opened it and 
found it to contain a number of separate abstracts, each 
duly headed with its descriptive title, and an envelope 
marked, “Photographs.” Glancing over the abstracts, 
I saw that they dealt respectively with J. D’Arblay, The 
Inquest, The Van Zellen Case, Miss D’Arblay, Dr. Gray, 
and Mr. Morris; the last containing, somewhat to my 
surprise, all the details that I had given Thorndyke re- 
specting that rather mysterious person, together with an 
account of my dealings with him and cross-references 
to the abstract bearing my name. It was all very -om- 
plete and methodical, but none of the abstracts contained 
any information that was new to me. If this repre- 
sented all the facts that were known to Thorndyke, then 
he was no better informed than I was. But he had evi- 
dently got a great deal more out of the information than 
I had. 

Returning the abstracts with some disappointment to 
the portfolio, I turned to the photographs; and then I 
got a very thorough surprise. There were only three, 


176 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


and the first two were of no great interest, one repre- 
senting the two casts of the guinea and the other the 
plaster mask of Morris. But the third fairly took away 
my breath. It was a very bad photograph, apparently 
an enlargement from a rather poor snap-shot portrait; 
but, bad as it was, it gave a very vivid presentment of 
one of the most evil-looking faces that I have ever looked 
on; a lean, bearded face, with high cheek-bones, with 
heavy, frowning brows that overhung deep-shadowed, 
hollow eye-sockets and an almost grotesquely large nose, 
thin, curved, and sharp, that jutted out like a great pred- 
atory beak. 

I stared at the photograph in speechless amazement. 
At the first glance I had been struck by the perfect way 
in which this crude portrait realized Marion’s description 
of the man who had tried to murder her. But that was 
not all, There was another resemblance which I now 
perceived with even more astonishment; indeed, it was 
so incredible that the perception of it reduced me to 
something like stupefaction. I sat for fully a minute 
with the portrait in my hand, and my thoughts surging 
confusedly in a vain effort to grasp the meaning of this 
extraordinary likeness; then, happening to glance up at 
Thorndyke, I found him quietly regarding me with un- 
disguised interest. 

“Well,” he said, as he caught my eye. 

“Who is he?” I demanded, holding up the photograph. 

“That is what I want to know,” he replied. “The 
photograph came to me without any description. The 
identity of the subject is unknown. Who do you think 
he is?” 

“To begin with,’ I answered, “he exactly corresponds 





A NARROW ESCAPE 177 


in appearance with Miss D’Arblay’s description of her 
would-be murderer. Don’t you think so?’ 

“T do,” he replied. “The correspondence seems com- 
plete in every detail, so far as I can judge. That was 
why I secured the photograph. But the actual resem- 
blance will have to be settled by her. I suggest that you 
take the portrait and let her see it; but you had better 
not show it to her pointedly for identification. It would 
be better to put it in some place where she will see it 
without previous suggestion or preparation. But you 
said just now ‘to begin with.’ Was there anything else 
that struck you about this photograph?” 

“Yes,” I answered, “there was; a most amazing thing. 
You remember my telling you about the patient I at- 
tended in Morris’ house?” 

“The man who died of gastric cancer and was even- 
tually cremated?” 

“Yes. His name was Bendelow. Well, this photo- 
graph might have been a portrait of Bendelow, taken 
with a beard and moustache before the disease got hold 
of him. Excepting for the emaciation and the beard— 
Bendelow was clean-shaved—I should think it would be 
quite an excellent likeness of him.” 

Thorndyke made no immediate reply or comment, 
but sat quite still, looking at me with a very singular 
expression. I could see that he was thinking rapidly and 
intensely, but I suspected that his thoughts were in a good 
deal less confusion than mine had been. 

“Tt is,” he remarked at length, “as you say, a most 
amazing affair. The face is no ordinary face. It would 
be difficult to mistake it, and one would have to go far 
to find another with which it could be confused. Still, 


178 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


one must not forget the possibility of a chance resem- 
blance. Nature doesn’t take out letters-patent even for 
a human face. But I will ask you, Gray, to write down 
and send to me all that you know about the late Mr. 
Bendelow, including all the details of your attendance 
on him, dead and alive.” 

“T will,” said I, “though it is dificult to imagine what 
connexion he could have had with the D’Arblay case.”’ 

“Tt seems incredible that he could have had any,”’ 
Thorndyke agreed. “But at present we are collecting 
facts, and we must note everything impartially. It is 
a fatal mistake to select your facts in accordance with 
the apparent probabilities. By the way, if Bendelow was 
like this photograph he must have corresponded pretty 
exactly with Miss D’Arblay’s very complete and lucid 
description. I wonder why you did not realize that at 
the time.” } 

“That is what I have been wondering. But I suppose 
it was the beard and the absence of any kind of association 
between Bendelow and the D’Arblays.” 

“Probably,” he agreed. ‘A beard and moustache alters 
very greatly even a striking face like this. Incidentally, 
it illustrates the superiority of a picture over a verbal 
description for purposes of identification. No mere de- 
scription will enable you to visualize correctly a face 
which you have never seen. I shall be curious to hear 
what Miss D’Arblay has to say about this photograph.”’ 

“T will let you know without delay,” said I; and then, 
as he seemed to have completed his work, and put the 
documents aside, I made a final effort to extract some 
definite information from him. 

“Tt is evident,” I said, “that the body of facts in your 


ae 





A NARROW ESCAPE 179 


notes has conveyed a good deal more to you than it has 
to me.” 

“Probably,” he agreed. “If it had not, I should seem 
to have profited little by years of professional practice.” 

“Then,” I said persuasively, “may I ask if you have 
formed a really satisfactory theory as to who this man 
is and why he murdered D’Arblay ?” 

Thorndyke reflected for:a few moments and then re- 
plied : 

“My position, Gray, is this: I have arrived at a very 
definite theory as to the motive of the murder, and a 
most extraordinary motive it is. But there are one or 
two points that I do not understand. There are some 
links missing from the chain of evidence. So with the 
identity of the man. We know pretty certainly that he is 
the murderer of Van Zellen, and we know what he is 
like to look at, but we can’t give him a name and a 
definite personality. There are links missing there, too. 
But I have great hopes of finding those missing links. 
If I find them I shall have a complete case against this 
man, and I shall forthwith set the law in motion. I 
can't tell you more than that at present, but I repeat 
that you are in possession of all the facts, and that if you 
think over all that has happened and ask yourself what it 
can mean, though you will not arrive at a complete solu- 
tion any more than I have, you will at least begin to see 
the light.” 

This was all that I could get out of him, and as it 
was now growing late I presently rose to take my de- 
parture. He walked with me as far as the Middle Temple 
Gate and stood outside the wicket watching me as I 
strode away westward. . 


CHAPTER XIV 
THE HAUNTED MAN 


WHEN I arrived at the studio on the following after- 
noon I found the door open and Polton waiting just 


inside with his hat and overcoat on and his bag in his 
hand. 

“Tam glad you are punctual, Sir,” he said, with his 
benevolent smile. “I wanted to get back to the cham- 
bers in good time to-day. It won't matter to-morrow, 
which is fortunate, as you may be late.” 

“Why may I be late to-morrow?” I asked. | 

“T have a message for you from the doctor,” he re- 
plied. “It is about what you were discussing last night. 
He told me to tell you that he is expecting a visit from 
an officer of the Criminal Investigation Department, and 
he would like you to be present, if it would be convenient. 
About half-past ten, Sir.” 

“I will certainly be there,” said I. 

“Thank you, Sir,’ said he. “And the doctor told me 
to warn you, in case you should arrive after the officer, 
not to make any comment on anything that may be said, 
or to seem to know anything about the subject of the 
interview.” 

“This is very mysterious, Polton,” I remarked. 

“Why, not particularly, Sir,” he replied. “You see 
the officer is coming to give certain information, but he 


will try to get some for himself if he can. But he won’t 
180 





THE HAUNTED MAN 181 


get anything out of the doctor; and the only way for you 
to prevent his peeping you is to say nothing and appear 
to know nothing.” 

I laughed at his ingenuous thie “Why,” I ex- 
claimed, ‘“‘you are as bad as the doctor, Polton. A reg- 
ular Machiavelli.” 

“TI never heard of him,” said Polton, “but most Scots- 
men are pretty close. Oh, and there is another little 
matter that I wanted to speak to you about—on my own 
account this time. I gathered from the doctor, in con- 
fidence, that some one had been following you about. 
Now, Sir, don’t you think it would be very useful to be 
able to see behind you without turning your head ?”’ 

“By Jove!” I exclaimed. “It would indeed! Capital! 
I never thought of it. I will have a supplementary eye 
fixed in the back of my head without delay.” 

Polton crinkled deprecatingly. “No need for that, 
Sir,’ said he. “I have invented quite a lot of different 
appliances for enabling you to see behind you; reflecting 
spectacles and walking sticks with prisms in the handle, 
and so on. But for use at night I think this will answer 
your purpose best.” a 

He produced from his pocket an object somewhat like a 
watchmaker’s eye-glass, and having fixed it in his eye to 
show me how it worked, handed it to me with the request 
that I would try it. I did so, and was considerably sur- 
prised at the efficiency of the appliance; for it gave me a 

perfectly clear view of the street almost directly behind me. 
, “T am very much obliged to you, Polton,’” I said, en- 
_thusiastically. “This is a most valuable gift, especially 
under the present circumstances.” 

He was profoundly gratified. “TI think you will find 


182 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


it useful, Sir,” he said. “The doctor uses these things 
sometimes, and so do I if the occasion arises. You see, 
Sir, if you are being shadowed it is a fatal thing to turn 
round and look behind you. You never get a chance of 
seeing what the stalker is like, and you put him on his 
guard.” 

I saw this clearly enough and once more thanked him 
for his timely gift. Then, having shaken his hand and 
sped him on his way, I entered the lobby and shut the 
outer door, at the same time transferring Thorndyke’s 
photograph from my letter-case to my jacket pocket. 
When I passed through into the studio I found Marion 
putting the finishing touches to a plaster case. She 
greeted me with a smile as I entered and then plunged 
her hand once more into the bowl of rapidly thickening 
plaster; whereupon I took the opportunity to lay the 
photograph on a side-bench as I walked towards the 
table on which she was working. 

“Good afternoon, Marion,” said I. 

“Good afternoon, Stephen,” she responded, adding, “I 
cannot shake hands until I have washed,” and held out 
her emplastered hands in evidence. 

“That will be too late,’ said I; and as she looked up 
at me inquiringly I stooped and kissed her. 

“You are very resourceful,’ she remarked with a 
smile and a warm blush, as she scooped up another hand- 
ful of plaster ; and then, as if to cover her slight confusion, 
she asked: “What was all that solemn pow-wow about | 
with Mr. Polton? And why did he wait for you at the 
door in that suspicious manner? Had he some secret 3 
message for you?” 

“T don’t know whether it was intended to be secret,’ 





' THE HAUNTED MAN 183 


I answered; “but it isn’t going to be so far as you are 
concerned ;” and I repeated to her the substance of Thorn- 
dyke’s message, to which she listened with an eagerness 
that rather surprised me, until her further inquiries ex- 
plained it. | 

“This sounds rather encouraging,’ she said; “‘as if 
Dr. Thorndyke had been making some progress in his 
investigations. I wonder if he has. Do you think he 
really knows much more than we do?” 

“T am sure he does,” I replied; “but how much more, 
I cannot guess. He is extraordinarily close. But I have 
a feeling that the end is not so very far off. He seems to 
be quite hopeful of laying his hand on this villain.” 

“Oh! I hope you are right, Stephen,” she exclaimed. 
“T have been getting so anxious. There has seemed to 
be no end to this deadlock. And yet it can’t go on 
indefinitely.” 

“What do you mean, Marion?” I asked. 

“T mean,” she answered, “that you can’t go on wasting 
your time here and letting your career go. Of course, 
it is delightful to have you here. [I don’t dare to think 
what the place will be like without you. But it makes 
me wretched to think how much you are sacrificing for 
mié. 

“T am not really sacrificing anything,” said I. “On the 
contrary, I am spending my time most profitably in the 
pursuit of knowledge and most happily in a sweet com- 
panionship which I wouldn’t exchange for anything in 
the world.” 

“It is very nice of you to say that,’ she said, “but, 
still, I shall be very relieved when the danger is over 
and you are free.” 


184 THE D'ARBUAY CRY St ai 


“Free!” I exclaimed, “I don’t want to be free. When 
my apprenticeship has run out I am coming on as jour- 
neyman. And now I had better get my blouse on and 
start work.” 

I went to the further end of the studio, and, taking the 
blouse down from its peg, proceeded to exchange it for 
my coat. Suddenly I was startled by a sharp cry, and, 
turning round, beheld Marion stooping over the photo- 
graph with an expression of the utmost horror. 

““Where did this come from?” she demanded, turning 
a white, terror-stricken face on me. 

“T put it there, Marion,’ I answered somewhat sheep- 
ishly, hurrying to her side. “‘But what is the matter? 
Do you know the man?” 

“Do I know him?” she repeated. “Of course I do. 
It is he—the man who came here that night.” 

“Are you quite sure?’ I asked. “Are you certain 
that it is not just a chance resemblance?” 

She shook her head emphatically. “It is he, Stephen. 
I can swear to him. It is no mere resemblance. It is a 
likeness, and a perfect one, though it is such a bad 
photograph. But where did you get it? And why didn’t 
you show it to me when you came in?” 

I told her how I came by it and explained Thorndyke’s 
instructions. 

“Then,” she said, ‘Dr. Thorndyke knows who the 
man is.” 

He says he doesn’t, and he was very close and rather 
obscure as to how the photograph came into his pos- 
session.” 

“It is very mysterious,’ said she, with another terri- 
fied glance at the photograph. Then suddenly she 


, 


THE HAUNTED MAN 185 


snatched it up and with averted face held it out to me. 
“Put it away, Stephen,’ she entreated. “I can’t bear 
the sight of that horrible face. It brings back afresh all 
the terrors of that awful night.” 

I hastily returned the photograph to my letter-case, and, 
taking her arm, led her back to the work-table. “Now,” 
I said, “let us forget it and get on with our work; 
and I proceeded to turn the case over and fix it in the 
new position with lumps of clay. For a little while she 
watched me in silence, and I could see by her pallor that 
she was still suffering from the shock of that unexpected 
encounter. But presently she picked up a scraper and 
joined me in trimming up the edges of the case, cutting 
out the “key-ways” and making ready for the second 
half; and by degrees her colour came back and the in- 
terest of the work banished her terrors. 

We were, in fact, extremely industrious. We not only 
finished the case—it was an arm from thé shoulder which 
was to be made—cut the pouring-holes, and varnished 
the inside with knotting, but we filled one-half with the 
melted gelatine which was to form the actual mould in 
which the wax would be cast. This brought the day’s 
work to an end, for nothing more could be done until the 
gelatine had set—a matter of at least twelve hours. 

“Tt is too late to begin anything fresh,” said Marion. 
“You had better come and have supper with me and 
Arabella.” . 

I agreed readily enough to this proposal, and when 
we had tidied up in readiness for the morning’s work 
we set forth at a brisk pace—for it was a cold evening— 
towards Highgate, gossiping cheerfully as we went. By 
the time we reached Ivy Cottage eight o’clock was strik- 


186 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


ing, and “the village’ was beginning to settle down for 
the night. The premature quiet reminded me that the 
adjacent town would presently be settiing down, too, and 
that I should do well to start for home before the streets 
had become too deserted. 

Nevertheless, so pleasantly did the time slip away in 
the cosy sitting-room with my two companions that it 
was close upon half-past ten when I rose to take my 
departure. Marion escorted me to the door, and as I 
stood in the hall buttoning up my overcoat, she said: 

“You needn’t worry if you are detained to-morrow. 
We shall be making the wax cast of the bust, and J am 
certain Mr. Polton won’t leave the studio until it is 
finished, whether you are there or not. He is perfectly 
mad on wax-work. He wormed all the secrets of the 
trade out of me the very first time we were alone, and 
he is extraordinarily quick at learning. But I can’t 
imagine what use the knowledge will be to him.” 

“Perhaps he thinks of starting an opposition estab. 
lishment,” I suggested, “or he may have an eye to a part- 
nership. But if he has he will have a competitor, and one 
with a prior claim. Good-night, dear child. Save some 
of the wax-work for me to-morrow.” 7 

She promised to restrain Polton’s enthusiasm as far 
‘ as possible, and wishing me “Good night,” held out her 
hand, but submitted without demur to being kissed; and 
I took my departure in high spirits, more engrossed with 
the pleasant leave-taking than with the necessity of 
keeping a bright look-out. 

I was nearing the bottom of the High-street when the 
prevailing quiet recalled me to the grim realities of my 
position, and I was on the point of stopping to take a look 





THE HAUNTED MAN 187 


round when I bethought me of Polton’s appliance and 
also of that cunning artificer’s advice not to put a possible 
“stalker” on his guard. I accordingly felt in my pocket, 
and having found the appliance carefully fixed it in my 
eye without altering my pace. The first result was a 
collision with a lamp-post, which served to remind me 
of the necessity of keeping both eyes open. The instru- 
ment was, in fact, not very easy to use while walking, 
and it took me a minute or two to learn how to manage 
it. Presently, however, I found myself able to divide my 
attention between the pathway in front and the view be- 
hind, and then it was that I became aware of a man 
following me at a distance of about a hundred yards. 
Of course, there was nothing remarkable or suspicious in 
this, for it was a main thoroughfare and by no means 
deserted at this comparatively early hour. Nevertheless, 
I kept the man in view, noting that he wore a cloth cap 
and a monkey-jacket, that he carried no stick or um- 
brella, and that when I slightly slackened my pace he 
did not seem to overtake me. As this suggested that he 
was accommodating his pace to mine, I decided to put 
the matter to the test by giving him an opportunity to 
pass me at the next side turning. 

At this moment the Roman Catholic Church came 
into view and [I recalled that at its side a narrow lane— 
Dartmouth Park Hill—ran down steeply between high 
fences towards Kentish Town. Instantly I decided to 
turn into the lane—which bent sharply to the left behind 
the church—walk a few yards down it and then return 
slowly. If my follower were a harmless stranger he 
would then have passed on down Highgate Hill, where- 
as if he were stalking me I should meet him at the en- 


188 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


trance to the lane and could then see what he was like. 

But I was not very well satisfied with this plan, for the 
obvious manceuvre would show him that he was sus- 
pected; and as I approached the church, a better plan 
suggested itself. On one side by the entrance to the 
lane were some low railings and a gate with large brick 
piers. In a moment I had vaulted over the railings and 
taken up a position behind one of the piers, where I stood 
motionless, listening intently. Very soon I caught the 
sound of distinctly rapid footsteps, which suddenly grew 
louder as my follower came opposite the entrance to the 
lane, and louder still as, without a moment’s hesitation, 
he turned into it. 

From my hiding-place in the deep shadow of the pier 
I could safely peep out into the wide space at the entrance 
of the lane; and as this space was well lighted by a lamp 
I was able to get an excellent view of my follower. And 
very much puzzled I was therewith. Naturally I had 
expected to recognize the man whose photograph I had 
in my pocket. But this was quite a different type of 
man. It is true that he was shortish and rather slightly 
built, and that he had a beard: but there the resemblance 
ended. His face, which I could see plainly by the lamp- 
light, so far from being of an aquiline or vulturine cast, 
was rather of the blunt and bibulous type. The short, 
though rather bulbous nose, made up in colour what it 
lacked in size, and its florid tint extended into the cheek 
on either side in the form of what dermatologists call 
acne rosacea. 

I say that his.appearance puzzled me; but it was not | 
his appearance alone. For the latter showed that he 
was a stranger to me and suggested that he was going 


THE HAUNTED MAN 189 


down the lane on his lawful occasions; but his movements 
did not support that suggestion. He had turned into the 
lane and passed my hiding-place at a very quick walk. 
But just as he reached the sharp turn he slackened his 
pace, stepping lightly, and then stopped for a moment, lis- 
tening intently and peering forward into the darkness of 
the lane. At length he started again and disappeared 
round the corner, and by the sound of his retreating foot- 
steps I could tell that he was once more putting on the 
pace. 

I listened until these sounds had nearly died away and 
was just about to emerge from my shelter when I became 
aware of footsteps approaching from the opposite direc- 
tion, and as I did not choose to be seen in the act of 
climbing the railings I decided to remain perdu until this 
person had passed. These footsteps, too, had a distinctly 
hurried sound, a fact which I noted with some surprise; 
but I was a good deal more surprised when the new- 
comer turned sharply into the entrance, walked swiftly 
past my ambush, and then, as he approached the corner, 
suddenly slowed down, advancing cautiously on tip-toe, 
and finally halted to listen and stare into the obscurity. 
of the lane. 

I peered out at this new arrival with an amazement 
that I cannot describe. Like the first man, he was a 
complete stranger to me: a tallish, athletic-looking man 
of about thirty-five, not ill-looking, and having some- 
thing of a military air; fair-complexioned, with a sandy 
moustache, but otherwise clean-shaved and dressed in a 
suit of thick tweed, with no overcoat. I could see these 
details clearly by the light of the lamp; and even as I 
was noting them, he disappeared round the corner and 


190 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


I could hear him walking quickly but lightly down the 
lane. 

As soon as he was gone I looked out from my hiding- 
place and listened attentively. There was no one in sight, 
nor could I hear any one approaching. I accordingly 
came forth, and, quickly climbing over the railings, stood 
for a few moments irresolute. The obviously reasonable 
thing to do was to make off down Highgate Hill as fast 
as I could and take the first conveyance that I could get 
homeward. But the appearance of that second man had 
inflamed me with curiosity. What was he here for? 
Was he shadowing me or was he in pursuit of the other 
man? Either supposition was incredible, but one of 
them must be true. The end of it was that curiosity got 
the better of discretion and I, too, started down the lane, 
walking as fast as I could and treading as lightly as 
circumstances permitted. 

The second man was some considerable distance ahead, 
for his footsteps came to me but faintly, and I did not 
seem to be gaining on him; and I took it that his speed 
was a fair measure of that of the man in front. Keeping 
thus within hearing of my quarry, I sped on, turning over 
the amazing situation in my bewildered mind. The first 
man was a mystery to me, though apparently not to 
Thorndyke. Who could he be, and why on earth was 
he taking this prodigious amount of trouble to get rid 
of a harmless person like myself? For there could be 
no mistake as to the magnitude of the efforts that he was 
making. He must have waited outside the studio; fol- 
lowed Marion and me to her home, and there kept a 
patient vigil of over two hours, waiting for me to come 
out. It was a stupendous labour. And what was it all 


THE HAUNTED MAN 191 


about? I could not form the most shadowy guess; while 
as to the other man, the very thought of him reduced 
me to a state of hopeless bewilderment. 

As my reflections petered out to this rather nebulous 
conclusion, I halted for a moment to listen for the foot- 
steps ahead. They were still audible, though they sounded 
somewhat farther away. But now I caught the sound 
of other footsteps, approaching from behind. Some one 
else was coming down the lane. Of course, there was 
nothing surprising in that circumstance, for, after all, 
this was a public thoroughfare, little frequented as it was, 
especially after dark. Nevertheless, something in the 
character of those footsteps put me on the qui vive. For 
this man, too, was walking quickly—very quickly—and 
with a certain stealthiness, as if he had rubber-soled 
boots, and, like the rest of us, was making as little noise 
as possible. 

I walked on at my previous rapid pace, keeping my ears 
cocked now both fore and aft; and, as I went, my mind 
surged with wild speculations. Could it be that I had 
yet another follower? The thing was becoming gro- 
tesque. My bewilderment began to mingle with a spice 
of grim amusement; but still I listened, not without 
anxiety, to those footsteps from behind, which seemed 
to be growing rapidly more distinct. Whoever this new- 
comer might be, he was no mean walker, for he was 
overtaking me apace; and this fact gave a pretty broad 
hint as to his size and strength. 

I looked back from time to time, but without stopping 
or slackening my pace, trying to pierce the deep obscurity 
of the narrow, closed-in lane. But it was a dark winter’s 
night, and the high fences shut out even the glimmer 


192 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


from the murky sky. It was not until the approaching 
footfalls sounded quite near that I was able, at length, 
to make out a smear of deeper darkness on the general 
obscurity. Then I drew out my pistol and, withdrawing 
the safety catch, put my hand, grasping it, into my over- 
coat pocket. Having thus made ready for possible con- 
tingencies, I watched the black shape emerge from the 
darkness until it developed into a tall, portly man, bear- 
ing down on me with long, swinging strides, when I 
halted and drew back against the fence to let him pass. 

But he had no intention of passing. As he came up 
to me, he, too, halted, and, looking into my face with 
undissembled curiosity, he addressed me in a brusque 
though not uncivil tone. 

“Now, sir, I must ask you to explain what is going 
on.” 
“What do you mean?” I demanded. 
“Tl tell you,” he replied. “I saw you, a little time 
ago, climb over the railings and hide behind a gate- 
post. Then I saw a man come up in a deuce of a hurry 
and turn into the lane. I saw him stop and listen for 
a moment and then bustle off down the hill. Close on 
this fellow’s heels comes another man, also in a devil 
of a hurry. He turns into the lane, too, and suddenly 
he pulls up and creeps forward on tip-toe like a cat on 
hot bricks. He stops and listens, too; and then off he 
goes down the lane like a lamplighter. Then out you 
come from behind the gate-post, over the railings you 
climb, and then you creep up to the corner and listen, 
and then off you go down the hill like another lamp- 
lighter. Now, sir, what’s it all about?” 

“T assume,” said I, repressing a strong tendency to 


THE HAUNTED MAN 193 


giggle, “that you have some authority for making these 
inquiries ?” 

“I have, sir,” he replied. “I am a police officer on 
plain-clothes duty. J happened to be at the corner of 
Hornsey-lane when I saw you coming down the High- 
street walking in a queer sort of way as if you couldn’t 
see where you were going. So I drew back into the 
shadow and had a look at you. Then I saw you nip 
into the lane and climb over the railings, so I waited to 
see what was going to happen next. And then those 
other two came along. Well, now, I ask you again, sir, 
what’s going on? What is it all about?” 

“The fact is,” I said a little sheepishly, “I thought the 
first man was following me, so I hid just to see what 
he was up to.” 

“What about the second man?” 

“T don’t know anything about him.” 

“What do you know about the first man?” 

“Nothing, except that he certainly was following me.” 

“Why should he be following you?’ 

“T can’t imagine. He is a stranger to me, and so is 
the other man.” 

“Hm,”’ said the officer, regarding me with a distrustful 
eye. “Damn funny affair. I think you had better walk 
up to the station with me and give us a few particulars 
about yourself.” 

“I will with pleasure,” said I. “But I am not al- 
together a stranger there. Inspector Follett knows me 
quite well. My name is Gray—Dr. Gray.” 

The officer did not reply for a few moments. He 
seemed to be listening to something. And now my ear 
caught the sound of footsteps approaching hurriedly 


194. THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


from down the lane. As they drew near, my friend 
peered into the darkness and muttered in an undertone: 

“Will that be one of ’em coming back?” He listened 
again for a moment or two, and then, resuming his in- 
quiries, said aloud: “You say Inspector Follett knows 
you. Well, perhaps you had better come and see Inspector 
Follett.” 

As he finished speaking, he again listened intently, 
and his mouth opened slightly. I suspect my own did, 
too. For the footsteps had ceased. ‘There was now a 
dead silence in the lane. 

“That chap has stopped to listen,” my new friend re- 
marked in a low voice. “We had better see what his 
game is. Come along, sir;’ and with this he strode off 
at a pace that taxed my powers to keep up with him. 

But at the very moment that he started, the footsteps 
became audible again, only now they were obviously re- 
treating; and straining my ears I caught the faint sound 
of other and more distant footfalls, also retreating, so 
far as I could judge, and in the same hurried fashion. 

For a couple of minutes the officer swung along like 
a professional pedestrian, and I struggled on just behind 
him, perspiring freely, and wishing that I could shed 
my overcoat. Still, despite our efforts, there was no 
sign of our gaining on the men ahead. My friend evi- 
dently realized this, for he presently growled over his 
shoulder, “This won’t do,’ and forthwith broke into a 
run, 

Instantly this acceleration communicated itself to the 
men in front. The rhythm of both sets of footfalls 
showed that our fore-runners were literally justifying 


b 


=—~* 


THE HAUNTED MAN 198 


that description of them; and as both had necessarily 
given up any attempt to move silently, the sounds of 
their retreat were borne to us quite distinctly. And 
from those sounds the unsatisfactory conclusion emerged 
that they were drawing ahead pretty rapidly. My friend, 
the officer, was, as I have said, an uncommonly fine 
walker. But he was no runner. His figure was against 
him. He was fully six feet in height and he had a 
“presence.” He could have walked me off my legs; but 
when it came to running I found myself ambling behind 
him with such ease that I was able to get out my pistol 
and, after replacing the safety-catch, stow the weapon in 
my hip pocket, out of harm’s way. 

However, if my friend was no sprinter he was cer- 
tainly a stayer, for he lumbered on doggedly until the 
lane entered the new neighbourhood of Dartmouth Park; 
and here it was that the next act opened. We had just 
passed the end of the first of the streets when I saw a 
surprisingly agile policeman dart out from a shady corner 
and follow on in our wake in proper Lillie-bridge style. 
I immediately put on a spurt and shot past my compan- 
ion, and a few moments later sounds of objurgation 
arose from behind. I stopped at once and turned back, 
just in time to hear an apologetic voice exclaim: 

“Tm sure I beg your pardon, Mr. Plonk. I didn’t 
reckernize you in the dark.” 

“No, of course you wouldn’t,” replied the plain-clothes 
officer. “Did you see two men run past here just now?” 

“T did,” answered the constable. “One after the other, 
and both running as if the devil was after them. I 
was half-way up the street, but I popped down to have 


¥e 


196 THE D’ARBLAY MYsSi ine 


a look at them, and when I got to the corner I heard 
you coming. So I just kept out of sight and waited 
for you.” 

“Quite right too,” said Mr. Plonk. “Well, I don’t 
see or hear anything of those chaps now.” 

“No,” agreed the constable, “and you are not likely 
to. There’s a regular maze of new streets about here. 
You can take it that they’ve got clear away.” . 

“Yes, I’m afraid they have,’ said Plonk. “Well, it 
can’t be helped, and there’s nothing much in it. Good 
night, constable.”’ 

He moved off briskly, not wishing, apparently, to dis- 
cuss the affair, and in a few minutes we came to the 
wide cross-roads. Here he halted and looked me over 
by the light of a street lamp. Apparently the result was 
satisfactory, for he said: “It’s hardly worth while to 
take you all the way back to the station at this time of 
night. Where do you live?” 

I told him Camden-square and offered a card in cor- 
roboration. 

“Then you are pretty close home,” said he, inspecting 
my card. ‘Very well, Doctor. Pll speak to Inspector 
Follett about this affair, and if you have any further 
trouble of this sort you had better let us know. And 
you had better let us have a description of the men in — 
any case.” 

I promised to send him the particulars on the follow- 
ing day, and we then parted with mutual good wishes, he 
making his way towards Holloway-road and I setting my 
face homeward by way of the Brecknock-road and keep- 
ing an uncommonly sharp look-out as I went. 


b 


CHAPTER XV 
THORNDYKE PROPOSES A NEW MOVE 


On the following morning, in order to make sure of 
arriving before the detective officer, I presented myself 
at King’s Bench-walk a good half-hour before I was 
due. The door was opened by Thorndyke himself, and 
as we shook hands he said: “I am glad you have come 
early, Gray. No doubt Polton explained the programme 
to you, but I should like to make our position quite clear. 
The officer who is coming here presently is Detective- 
Superintendent Miller, of the Criminal Investigation De- 
partment. He is quite an old friend, and he is coming 
at my request to give me certain information. But, of 
course, he is a detective officer, with his own duties to 
his department, and an exceedingly shrewd, capable man. 
Naturally, if he can pick up any crumbs of information 
from us, he will; and I don’t want him to learn more, at 
present, than I choose to tell him.”’ 

“Why do you want to keep him in the dark?” I asked. 

“Because,” he replied, “we are doing quite well, and 
I want to get the case complete before I call in the police. 
If I were to tell him all I know and all I think, he might 
get too busy, and scare our man away before we have 
enough evidence to justify an arrest. As soon as the 
investigation is finished, and we have such evidence as 
will secure a conviction, I shall turn the case over to 
him; meanwhile, we keep our own counsel. Your role 

197 


198 THE D’ARBLAY MYo tie 


this morning will be that of listener. Whatever happens, 
make no comment. Act as if you knew nothing that 1s 
not of public knowledge.” 

I promised to follow his directions to the letter, though 
I could not get rid of the feeling that all this secrecy was 
somewhat futile. Then I began to tell him of my experi- 
ences of the previous night, to which he listened at first 
with grave interest, but with growing amusement as the 
story developed. When I came to the final chase and 
the pursuing policeman, he leaned back in his chair and 
laughed heartily. 

“Why,” he exclaimed, wiping his eyes, “it was a reg- 
ular procession! It only wanted a string of sausages and 
a harlequin to bring it up to pantomime form.” 

“Yes,” I admitted with a grin, “it was a ludicrous 
affair. But it was a mighty mysterious affair too. You 
see, neither of the men was the man I had expected. 
There must be more people in this business than we had 
supposed. Have you any idea who these men can be?’ 

“Tt isn’t much use making vague guesses,” he replied. 
“The important point to note is that this incident, far- 
cical as it turned out, might easily have taken a tragical 
turn; and the moral is that for the present you can’t be 
too careful in keeping out of harm’s way.” : 

It was obvious to me that he was evading my question; 
that those two sinister strangers were not the mystery 
to him that they were to me, and I was about to return 
to the charge with a more definitely pointed question when 
an elaborate flourish on the little brass knocker of the 
inner door announced a visitor. 

The tall, military-looking man whom Thorndyke ad- 
mitted was evidently the Superintendent, as I gathered 


THORNDYKE PROPOSES A NEW MOVE - 199 


from the mutual greetings. He looked rather hard at 
me until Thorndyke introduced me, which he did with 
characteristic reticence. 

“This is Dr. Gray, Miller; you may remember his 
name. It was he who discovered the body of Mr. 
D’Arblay.” 

“Yes, I remember,’ said the Superintendent, shaking 
my hand unemotionally and still looking at me with a 
slightly dubious air. 

“He is a good deal interested in the case,” Thorndyke 
continued, “not only professionally, but as a friend of 
the family—since the catastrophe.” 

“T see,” said the Superintendent, taking a final inquisi- 
tive look at me and obviously wondering why the deuce 
I was there. “Well, there is nothing of a very secret 
nature in what I have to tell you, and I suppose you can 
rely on Dr. Gray to keep his own counsel and ours.” 

“Certainly,” replied Thorndyke. “He quite under- 
stands that our talk is confidential, even if it is not 
secret.” 

The officer nodded, and, having been inducted into 
an easy chair, by the side of which a decanter, a siphon, 
and a box of cigars had been placed, settled himself 
comfortably, lit a cigar, mixed himself a modest refresher, 
and drew from his pocket a bundle of papers secured 
with red tape. 

“You asked me, Doctor,” he began, “‘to get you all 
particulars up to date of the Van Zellen case. Well, I 
can do that without difficulty as the case—or at least what 
is left of it—is in my hands. The circumstances of the 
actual crime I think you know already, so I will take up 
the story from that point. 


200 THE: D’ARBLAY: MYSTER. 


“Van Zellen, as you know, was found dead in his 
room, poisoned with prussic acid, and a quantity of very 
valuable portable property was missing. It was not clear 
whether the murderer had let himself in with false keys or 
whether Van Zellen had let him in; but the place hadn’t 
been broken into. The job had been done with remark- 
able skill, so that not a trace of the murderer was left. 
Consequently, all that was left for the police to do was to 
consider whether they knew of any one whose methods 
agreed with those of this murderer. | 

“Well, they did know of such a person, but they had 
nothing against him but suspicion. He had never been 
convicted of any serious crime, though he had been in 
chokee once or twice for receiving. But there had been a 
number of cases of robbery with murder—or rather mur- 
der with robbery, for this man seemed to have committed 
the murder as a preliminary precaution—and they were all 
of this kind; a solitary crime, very skilfully carried out by 
means of poison. There was never any trace of the crim- 
inal; but gradually the suspicions of the police settled 
down on a rather mysterious individual of the name of 
Bendelow; Simon Bendelow. Consequently, when the 
Van Zellen crime came to light, they were inclined to put 
it on this man Bendelow, and they began making fresh in- 
quiries about him. But presently it transpired that some 
one had seen a man, on the morning of the crime, coming 
away from the neighbourhood of Van Zellen’s house just 
about the time when the murder must have been com- 
mitted.” 

“Was there anything to connect him with the crime?” 
Thorndyke asked. 

“Well, there was the time—the small hours of the 





THORNDYKE PROPOSES A NEW MOVE — 201 


morning—and the man was carrying a good-sized hand- 
bag, which seemed to be pretty heavy and which would 
have held the stuff that was missing. But the most im- 
portant point was the man’s appearance. He was de- 
scribed as a smallish man, clean-shaved, with a big 
hooked nose and very heavy eyebrows set close down 
over his eyes. 

“Now this put Bendelow out of it as the principal sus- 
pect, because the description didn’t fit him at all’? (here 
I caught Thorndyke’s eye for an instant and was warned 
afresh, and not unnecessarily, to make no comment) ; 
“but,” continued the Superintendent, “it didn’t put him 
out altogether. For the man whom the description did 
fit—and it fitted him to a T—was a fellow named Crile 
—Jonathan Crile—who was a pal of Bendelow’s and 
was known to have worked with him as a confederate 
in the receiving business and had been in prison once or 
twice. So the police started to make inquiries about 
Crile, and before long they were able to run him to 
earth. But that didn’t do them much good; for it turned 
out that Crile wasn’t in New York at all. He was in 
Philadelphia; and it was clearly proved that he had been 
there on the day of the murder, on the day before and 
the day after. So they seemed to have drawn a blank; 
but they were still a bit suspicious of Mr. Crile, who 
seems to have been as downy a bird as his friend Ben- 
delow, and of the other chappie, too. But they hadn’t 
a crumb of evidence against either. 

“So there the matter stuck. A complete deadlock. 
There was nothing to be done; for you can’t arrest a 
man on mere suspicion with not a single fact to support 
it. But the police kept their eye on both gents, so far 


202 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


as they could, and presently they got a chance. Bende- 
low made a slip—or, at any rate, they said he did. It 
was a little trumpery affair, something in the receiving 
line, and of no importance at all. Probably, a faked 
charge, too. But they thought that if they could get him 
arrested they might be able to squeeze something out 
of him—the police in America can do things that we 
aren’t allowed to. So they tried to pounce on him. But 
Mr. Bendelow was a slippery customer, and he got wind 
of their intentions just in time. When they got into his 
rooms they found that he had left—in a deuce of a 
hurry, too, and only a few minutes before they arrived. 
They searched the place, but found nothing incriminat- 
ing, and they tried to get on Bendelow’s track, but they 
didn’t succeed. He had managed to get clear away, and 
Crile seemed to have disappeared, too. 

“Well, that seemed to be the end of the affair. Both 
of these crooks had made off without leaving a trace, 
and the police—having no evidence—didn’t worry any 
more about them. And so things went on for about a 
year, until the Van Zellen case had been given up and 
nearly forgotten, Then something happened quite re- 
cently that gave the police a fresh start. 

“Tt appears that there was a fire in the house in which 
Bendelow’s rooms were, and a good deal of damage was 
done, so that they had to do some rebuilding; and in 
the course of the repairs, the builder’s men found, hidden 
under the floor-boards, a small parcel containing part of 
the Van Zellen swag. There was nothing of real value; 
just coins and medals and seal-rings and truck of that 
kind. But the things were all identified by means of Van 
Zellen’s catalogue, and, of course, the finding of them 


THORNDYKE PROPOSES A NEW MOVE — 203 


in what had been Bendelow’s rooms put the murder pretty 
clearly on to him. 

“On this, as you can guess, the police and the detective 
agencies got busy. They searched high and low for the 
missing man, but for a long time they could pick up no 
traces of him. At last they discovered that he and Crile 
had taken a passage nearly a year ago on a tramp steamer 
bound for England. Thereupon they sent a very smart, 
experienced detective over to work at the case in con- 
junction with our own detective department. 

“But we didn’t have much to do with it. The Ameri- 
can—Wilson was his name—had all the particulars, with 
the prison photographs and finger-prints of both the 
men, and he made most of the inquiries himself. How- 
ever, there were two things that we did for him. We 
handed over to him the Van Zellen guinea and the par- 
ticulars of the D’Arblay murder; and we were able to 
inform him that his friend, Bendelow, was dead.” 

“How did you find that out?’ Thorndyke asked. 

“Oh, quite by chance. One of our men happened to 
be at Somerset House looking up some details of a will 
when in the list of wills he came across the name of 
Simon Bendelow, which he had heard from Wilson him- 
self. He at once got out the will, copied out the address 
of the executrix and the names and addresses of the wit- 
nesses, and handed them over to Wilson, who was might- 
ily taken aback, as you may suppose. However, he wasn’t 
taking anything for granted. He set off instantly to look 
up the executrix—a Mrs. Morris. But there he got 
another disappointment, for the Morrises had gone away 
and no one knew where they had gone.” 


204 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


“T take it,” said Thorndyke, “that probate of the will 
had been granted.” 

“Yes; everything in that way had been finished up. 
Well, on this, Wilson went off in search of the witnesses, 
and he had better luck this time. They were two elderly 
spinsters who lived together in a house in Turnpike- 
lane, Hornsey. They didn’t know much about Bendelow, 
for they had only made his acquaintance after he had 
taken to his bed. They were introduced to him by his 
friend and landlady, Mrs. Morris, who used to take them 
up to his room to talk to him and cheer him up a bit. 
However, they knew all about his death, for they had 
seen him in his coffin and they followed him to the Ilford 
Crematorium.” 

“Hal’ said Thorndyke. “So he was cremated.” 

“Ves,” chuckled the Superintendent, with a sly look 
at Thorndyke. “I thought that would make you prick 
up your ears, Doctor. Yes, there were no half measures 
for Mr. Bendelow. He had gone literally to ashes. But 
it was all right, you know. There couldn’t have been any 
hanky panky. These two ladies had not only seen him 
in his coffin; they actually had a last look at him through 
a little celluloid window in the coffin-lid, just before the 
coffin was passed through into the cremation furnace.” 

“And there was no doubt as to his identity?” 

“None whatever. Wilson showed the old ladies his 
photograph, and they recognized him instantly; picked 
his photograph out of a dozen others.” 

“Where was Bendelow living when they made his 
acquaintance ?” 

“Not far from their house; in Abbey-road, Hornsey. 


But the Morrises moved afterwards to Market-street, 


THORNDYKE PROPOSES A NEW MOVE — 205 


Hoxton, and that is where he died and where the will 
was signed.” 3 

“T suppose Wilson ascertained the cause of death?” 

“Oh, yes. The old ladies told him that. But he ‘went 
to Somerset House and got a copy of the death certificate. 
I haven’t got that, as he took it back with him; but the 
cause of death was cancer of the pylorus—that’s some 
part of the gizzard, I believe, but you'll know all about 
it. At any rate, there was no doubt on the subject, as 
the two doctors made a post-mortem before they signed 
the death certificate. It was all perfectly plain and 
straightforward. 

“Well, so much for Mr. Bendelow. When Wilson had 
done with him, he turned his attention to Crile. And 
then he really did get a proper shake-up. When he was 
at Somerset House, looking up Bendelow’s death cer- 
tificate, it occurred to him just to run his eye down the 
list and make sure that Crile was still in the land of the 
living. And there, to his astonishment, he found Crile’s 
name. He was dead, too! And not only was he dead: 
he, also, had died of cancer—it was the pancreas this time; _ 
another part of the gizzard—and he had died at Hoxton, 
too, and he had died just four days before Bendelow. 
The thing was ridiculous. It looked like a conspiracy. 
But here again everything was plain and above-board. 
Wilson got a copy of the certificate and called on the 
doctor who had signed it, a man named Usher. Of 
course, Dr. Usher remembered all about the case as it 
had occurred quite recently. There was not a shadow of 
doubt that Crile was dead. Usher had helped to put him 
in his coffin and had attended at his funeral; and he, 
too, had no difficulty in picking out Crile’s photograph, 


206 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


and he had no doubt at all as to what Crile died of. So 
there it was. Queer as it looked, there was no denying 
the plain facts. Those two crooks had slipped through 
the fingers of the law, so far as it was possible to see. 

“But I must admit that I was not quite satisfied; the 
circumstances were so remarkably odd. I told Wilson 
so, and I advised him to look further into the matter. 
I reminded him of the D’Arblay murder and the finding 
of that guinea, but he said that the murder was our 
affair, that the men he had come to look for were dead, 
and that was all that concerned him. So back he went 
to New York, taking with him the death certificates and 
the two photographs with the certificates of recognition 
on the backs of them. But he left the notes of the case 
with me, on the chance that they might be useful to me, 
and the two sets of finger-prints, which certainly don’t 
seem likely to be of much use under the circumstances.” 

“You never know,” said Thorndyke, with an enig- 
matical smile. 

The Superintendent gave him a quick, inquisitive look 
and agreed: “No, you don’t, especially when you are 
dealing with Dr. John Thorndyke.” He pulled out his 
watch, and, staring at it anxiously, exclaimed: “What a 
confounded nuisance! I’ve got an appointment at the 
Law Courts in five minutes. It is quite a small matter. 
Won’t take me more than half an hour. May I come 
back when I have finished? I should like to hear what 
you think of this extraordinary story.” 

“Come back, by all means,” said Thorndyke, “and I 
will turn over the facts in my mind while you are gone. 
Possibly some suggestion may present itself in the in- 
terval.” | 


THORNDYKE PROPOSES A NEW MOVE 207 


He let the officer out, and when the hurried footsteps 
had died away on the stairs he closed the door and turned 
to me with a smile. } 

“Well, Gray,’ he said, “what do you think of that? 
Isn’t it a very pretty puzzle for a medical jurist?” 

“Tt is a hopeless tangle to me,” I replied. “My brain 
is in a whirl. You can’t dispute the facts, and yet you 
can’t believe them. I don’t know what to make of the 
affair.” 

“You note the fact that, whoever may be dead, there 
is somebody alive—very much alive, and that that some- 
body is the murderer of Julius D’Arblay.” 

“Yes, I realize that. But obviously he can’t be either 
Crile or Bendelow. The question is: Who is he?” 

“You note the link between him and the Van Zellen 
murder; I mean the electrotype guinea?” 

“Yes, there is evidently some connexion, but I can’t 
imagine what it can be. By the way, you noticed that 
the American police had got muddled about the personal 
appearance of these two men, ‘The description of that 
man who was seen coming away from Van Zellen’s house, 
and who was said to be quite unlike Bendelow, actually 
fitted him perfectly. They had evidently made a mistake 
of some kind.” | 

“Yes, I noticed that. But the description may have 
fitted Crile better. We must get into touch with this 
man, Usher. I wonder if he will be the Usher who used 
to attend at St. Margaret’s.” 

“He is; and I am in touch with him already. In fact, 
he was telling me about this very patient, Jonathan 
Crile.” 


208 THE D’ARBLAY MY¥sien™ 


“Indeed! Can you remember the substance of what 
he told you?” 

“T think so. It wasn’t very thrilling.” And here I 
gave him, as well as I could remember them, the details 
with which Usher had entertained me of his attendance 
on the late Jonathan Crile, his dealings with the land- 
lady, Mrs. Pepper, and the incidents of the funeral, in- 
cluding Usher’s triumphant return in the mourning coach. 
It seemed a dull and trivial story, but Thorndyke listened 
to it with the keenest interest, and when I had finished 
he asked: “He didn’t happen to mention where Crile 
lived, I suppose?” 

“Yes, curiously enough, he did. The address, I re- 
member, was 52, Field-street, Hoxton.” 

“Ha!” said Thorndyke. “You are a mine of informa- 
tion, Gray.” 

He rose and, taking down from the bookshelves 
Phillip’s Atlas of London, opened it and pored over one 
of the maps. Then, replacing the Atlas, he got out his 
notes of the D’Arblay case and searched for a particular 
entry. It was evidently quite a short one, for when he 
had found it he gave it but a single glance and closed the 
portfolio. Then, returning to the bookshelves, he took 
out the Post Office Directory and opened it at the 
“streets” section. Here also his search was but a short 
one though it appeared to be concerned with two separate 
items; for, having examined one, he turned to a different 
part of the section to find the other. Finally he closed 
the unwieldy volume and, having replaced it on the shelf, 
‘turned and once more looked at me inquiringly. — 
“Reflecting on what Miller has told us,” he said, 





THORNDYKE PROPOSES A NEW MOVE — 209 


“does anything suggest itself to you? Any sort of hy- 
pothesis as to what the real facts may be?” 

“Nothing whatever,’ I replied. “The confusion that 
was already in my mind is only the worse confounded. 
But that is not your case, I take it.” 

“Not entirely,” he admitted. ‘‘The fact is that I had 
already formed a hypothesis as to the motives and cir- 
cumstances which lay behind the murder of Julius 
D’Arblay, and I find this new matter not inconsistent 
with it. But that hypothesis may, nevertheless, turn out 
to be quite One when we put it to the test of further 
investigation.” 

“You have some further fs Ati in view, then:”’ 

“Yes. I am going to make a proposal to Superin- 
tendent Miller—and here he comes, before his time; by 
which I judge that he, also, is keen on the solution of 
this puzzle.” 

Thorndyke’s opinion seemed to be justified, for the 
Superintendent entered all agog, and opened the subject 
at once. 

“Well, Doctor, I suppose you have been thinking over 
Wilson’s story? How does it strike you? Have you 
come to any conclusion ?”’ 

“Yes,” replied Thorndyke. “TI have come to the con- 
clusion that I can’t accept that story at its face value as 
representing the actual facts.” 

Miller laughed with an air of mingled amusement and 
vexation. “That is just my position,’ said he. “The 
story seems incredible, but yet you can’t raise any objec- 
tion. The evidence in support of it is absolutely con- 
clusive at every point. There isn’t a single weak spot 


210 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


in it—at least, I haven’t found one. Perhaps you have?” 
And here he looked at Thorndyke with eager inquiry in 
his eyes. 

“T won’t say that,” Thorndyke replied. “But I put it 
to you, Miller, that the alleged facts that are offered are 
too abnormal to be entertained. We cannot accept that 
string of coincidences. It must be obvious to you that 
there is a fallacy somewhere and that the actual facts are 
not what they seem.” 

“Yes, I feel that, myself,’ rejoined Miller. “But what 
are we to do? How are we to find the flaw in the evi- 
dence, if there is one? Can you see where to look for it? 
I believe you can.” 

“T think there is one point which ought to be verified,” 
said Thorndyke. “The identification of Crile doesn’t 
strike me as perfectly convincing.” 

“How does his case differ from Bendelow’s?” Miller 
demanded. , 

“In two respects,” was the reply. “First, Bendelow 
was identified by two persons who had known him well 
for some time and who gave a most circumstantial ac- 
count of his illness, his death, and the disposal of his 
body ; and second, Bendelow’s remains have been cremated 
and are therefore, presumably, beyond our reach for pur- 
poses of identification.” 

“Well,” Miller objected, “Crile isn’t so very accessible, 
being some few feet under ground.” 

“Still, he is there; and he has been buried only a few 
weeks. It would be possible to exhume the body and 
settle the question of his identity once for all.” 

“Then you are not satisfied with Dr. Usher’s identi- 
fication ?” | 


bed 


THORNDYKE PROPOSES A NEW MOVE - ait 


“No. Usher saw him only after a long, wasting ill- 
ness, which must have altered his appearance very greatly ; 
whereas the photograph was taken when Crile was in his 
normal health. It couldn’t have been so very like Usher’s 
patient.” 

“That’s true,” said Miller ; “and I remember that Usher 
wasn’t so very positive, according to Wilson. But he 
agreed that it seemed to be the same man; and all the 
other facts seemed to point to the certainty that it was 
really Crile. Still, you are not satisfied? It’s a pity 
Wilson took the photograph back with him.” 

“The photograph is of no consequence,” said Thorn- 
dyke. “You have the finger-prints; properly authenti- 
cated finger-prints, actually taken from the man in the 
presence of witnesses. After this short time it will be 
possible to get perfectly recognizable finger-prints from 
the body, and those finger-prints will settle the identity of 
Usher’s patient beyond any possible doubt.” 

The Superintendent scratched his chin thoughtfully. 
“It’s a bit of a job to get an exhumation order,” said 
he. “Before I raise the question with the Commissioner, 
I should like to have a rather more definite opinion from 
you. Do you seriously doubt that the man in that coffin 
is Jonathan Crile?” 

“It is my opinion,” replied Thorndyke—“of course, I 
may be wrong—but it is my considered opinion that the 
Crile who is in that coffin is not the Crile whose finger- 
prints are in your possession.” 

“Very well, Doctor,” said Miller, rising and picking up 
his hat, “that is good enough for me. I won't ask you 
for your reasons because I know you won’t give them. 
But I have known you long enough to feel sure that you 


212 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


wouldn’t give a definite opinion like that unless you had 
got something pretty solid to go on. And I don’t think 
we shall have any difficulty about the exhumation order 
after what you have said.” | 

With this the Superintendent took his leave, and very 
shortly afterwards Thorndyke carried me off to lunch at 
his club before dismissing me to take up my duties at 
the studio. 7 


CHAPTER XVI 
PeouUk aioe POR THE SUPERINTENDENT 


It appeared that Thorndyke was correct in his estimate 
of the Superintendent’s state of mind, for that officer 
managed to dispose in a very short space of time of the 
formalities necessary for the obtaining of an exhumation 
license from the Home Office. It was less than a week 
after the interview that I have recorded when I received 
a note from Thorndyke asking me to join him and Miller 
at King’s Bench-walk on the following morning at the 
unholy hour of half-past six. He offered to put me up 
for the night at his chambers, but I declined this hospi- 
tality, not wishing to trouble him unnecessarily ; and after 
a perfunctory breakfast by gaslight, a ride on an early 
tram, and a walk through the dim, lamp-lit streets, I 
entered the Temple just as the subdued notes of an in- 
visible clock bell announced a quarter past six. On my 
arrival at Thorndyke’s chambers I observed a roomy 
hired carriage drawn up at the entry, and, ascending the 
stairs, found “the Doctor” and Miller ready to start, each 
provided with a good-sized hand-bag. 

“This is a queer sort of function,” I remarked as we 
took our way down the stairs; “a sort of funeral the 
wrong way about.” 

“Yes,” Thorndyke agreed; “it is what Lewis Carroll 
would have called an unfuneral—and very appropriately, 
too, I didn’t give you any particulars in my note, but 
you understand the object of this expedition?” 

213 


214 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


“T assume that we are going to resurrect the late Jona- 
than Crile,” I replied. “It isn’t very clear to me what 
I have to do with the business, as I never knew Mr. Crile, 
though I am delighted to have this rather uncommon 
experience. But I should have thought that Usher would 
be the proper person to accompany you.” 

“So the Superintendent thought,” said Thorndyke, 
“and quite rightly; so I have arranged to pick up Usher 
and take him with us. He will be able to identify the 
body as that of his late patient, and you and I will help 
the Superintendent to take the finger-prints.”’ 

“T am taking your word for it, Doctor,” said Miller, 
“that the finger-prints will be recognizable, and that they 
will be the wrong ones.” 

“J don’t guarantee that,” Thorndyke replied, “but still, 
I shall be surprised if you get the right ones.” 

Miller nodded with an air of satisfaction, and nothing 
more was said on the subject until we drew up before 
Dr. Usher’s surgery. That discreet practitioner was 
already waiting at the open door, and at once took his 
place in the carriage, watched curiously by observers from 
adjacent windows. 

“This is a rum go,’ he remarked, diffusing a vinous 
aroma into the atmosphere of the carriage. “I really did 
think I had paid my last visit to Mr. Crile. But there’s 
no such thing as certainty in this world.” He chuckled 
softly and continued: “‘A bit different this journey from 
the last. No hatbands this time, and no Sunday-school 
children. Lord! When I think of those kids piping 
round the open grave, and that our dear departed brother 
was wanited by the police so badly that they were actually — 
going to dig him up, it makes me smile, it does, indeed.” 


A SURPRISE FOR THE SUPERINTENDENT 215 


In effect, it made him cackle; and as Miller had not 
heard the account of the funeral, it was repeated for his 
benefit in great detail. Then the anecdotal ball was set 
rolling ina fresh direction by one or two questions from 
Thorndyke, with the result that the entire history of 
Usher’s attendance on the deceased, including the mis- 
deeds of Mrs. Pepper, was retailed with such a wealth 
of circumstance that the narration lasted until we stopped 
at the cemetery gate. 

Our arrival was not unexpected, for as we got out of 
the carriage, two gentlemen approached the entrance, and 
one of them unlocked a gate to admit us. He appeared 
to be the official in charge of the cemetery, while the 
other, to whom he introduced us, was no less a person 
than Dr. Garroll, the Medical Officer of Health. 

“The Home Office license,’ the latter explained, “di- 
rects that the removal shall be carried out under my super- 
vision and to my satisfaction; very necessary in a 
populous neighbourhood like this.” 

“Very necessary,” Thorndyke agreed gravely. 

“T have provided a supply of fresh ground lime, ac- 
cording to the directions,’ Dr. Garroll continued; ‘and 
as a further precaution, I have brought with me a large 
formalin spray. That, I think, should satisfy all sanitary 
requirements.”’ 

“It should certainly be sufficient,’ Thorndyke agreed, 
“to meet the requirements of the present case. Has the 
excavation been commenced yet?” 

“Oh, yes,” replied the cemetery official. “It was started 
quite early, and has been carried down nearly to the full 
depth; but I thought that the coffin had better not be 
uncovered until you arrived. I have had a canvas screen 


¢ 


216 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


put up round the grave so that the proceedings may be 
quite private. We can send the labourers outside before 
we unscrew the coffin-lid. You said, Superintendent, that 
you were anxious to avoid any kind of publicity; and I 
have warned the men to say nothing to any one about 
the affair.” 

“Quite right,” said Miller. “We don’t want this to 
get into the papers, in case—well, in any case.” 

“Exactly, sir,” agreed the official, who was evidently 
bursting with curiosity himself. “Exactly. Here is the 
screen. If you will step inside, the excavation can be 
proceeded with.” 

We passed inside the screen, where we found four men 
reposefully contemplating a coil of stout rope, a basket, 
attached to another rope, and a couple of spades. The 
grave yawned in the middle of the enclosure, flanked on 
one side by the mound of newly dug earth and on the 
other by a tub of lime and a Winchester quart bottle 
fitted with a spray nozzle and a large rubber bellows. 

“You can get on with the digging now,” said the 
official ; whereupon one of the men was let down into the 
grave, together with a spade and the basket, and fell 
to work briskly. Then Dr. Garroll directed one of the 
other men to sprinkle in a little lime; which he did, with 
a pleased smile and so little discretion that the man below 
was seen to stop digging, and after looking up indig- 
nantly, take off his cap, shake it violently and ostenta- 
tiously dust his shoulders with it. 

When about a dozen basketfuls of earth had been 
hoisted up, a hollow, woody sound accompanying the 
thrusts of the spade announced that the coffin had been 
reached. Thereupon more lime was sprinkled in, and 


A SURPRISE FOR THE SUPERINTENDENT 217 


Dr. Garroll, picking up the formalin bottle, sprayed vigor- 
ously into the cavity until a plaintive voice from below— 
accompanied by an unnaturally loud sneeze—was heard 
to declare that “he’d ’ave brought his umbrella if he’d 
knowed he was goin’ to be squirted at.” A few minutes’ 
more work exposed the coffin and enabled us to read the 
confirmatory inscription on the plate. Then the rope 
slings were let down and with some difficulty worked 
into position by the excavator below; who, when he had 
completed his task, climbed to the surface and grasped 
one end of a sling in readiness to haul on it. 

“It’s a good deal easier letting ’em down than hoisting 
‘em up,’ Usher remarked, as the final shower of lime 
descended and the men began to haul; “but poor old Crile 
oughtn’t to take much lifting. There was nothing of him 
but skin and bone.” 

- However this might be, it took the united efforts of 
the four men to draw the coffin up to the surface and 
slew it round clear of the yawning grave. But at last 
this was accomplished, and it was lifted, for convenience. 
of inspection, on to one of the mounds of newly dug 
earth. | 

“Now,” said the presiding official, “you men had better 
go outside and wait down at the end of the path until 
you are wanted again:” an order that was received with 
evident disfavour and complied with rather sulkily. As 
soon as they were gone, our friend produced a couple of 
screw-drivers, with which he and Miller proceeded in a 
very workmanlike manner to extract the screws, while 
Dr. Garroll enveloped them in a cloud of spray, and 
Thorndyke, Usher, and I stood apart to keep out of 
range. It was not a long process; indeed, it came to an 


218 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


end sooner than I had expected, for the first intimation 
that I received of its completion was a loud exclamation 
(consisting of the single word “Snakes!’’) in the voice 
of Superintendent Miller. I turned quickly and saw that 
officer standing with the raised coffin-lid in his hand, 
staring into the interior with a look of perfectly in- 
describable amazement. Instantly I rushed forward and 
looked into the coffin; and then I was no less amazed. 
For in place of the mortal remains of the late Jonathan 
Crile, was a portly sack oozing sawdust from a hole in 
its side, through which coyly peeped a length of thick 
lead pipe. 

For a sensible time we all stood in breathless silence 
gazing down at that incredible sack. Suddenly Miller 
looked up eagerly at Thorndyke, whose sphinx-like coun- 
tenance showed the faintest shadow of a smile. 

“You knew this coffin was empty, Doctor?” said he. 

Thorndyke shook his head. “If I had known,” he 
replied, “I should have told you.” 

“Well, you suspected that it was empty.” 

“Yes,” Thorndyke admitted, “I don’t deny that.” 

“I wonder why you did, and why it never occurred 
to me.” 

“It did not occur to you, perhaps, because you were 
not in possession of certain suggestive facts which are 
known tome. Still, if you consider that the circumstances 
surrounding the alleged deaths of these two men were so 
incredible as to make us both feel certain that there was 
some fallacy or deception in regard to the apparent facts, 
you will see that this was a very obvious possibility. Two 
men were alleged to have died, and one of them was cer- 


A SURPRISE FOR THE SUPERINTENDENT 219 


tainly cremated. It followed that either the other man 
had died, as alleged, or that his funeral was a mock 
funeral. There was no other alternative. You must 
admit that, Miller.” 

“I do, I do,” the Superintendent replied ruefully. “It 
is always like this. Your explanations are so obvious 
when you have given them, and yet no one thinks of them 
but yourself. All the same, this isn’t so very obvious, 
even now. There are some extraordinary discrepancies 
that have yet to be explained. But we can discuss them 
on the way back. The question now is, what is to be 
done with this coffin?” 

“The first thing to be done,” replied Thorndyke, “is 
to screw on the lid. Then we can leave the cemetery 
authorities to deal with it. But those men must be sworn 
to absolute secrecy. That is vitally important, for if 
this exhumation should get reported in the Press, we 
should probably lose the whole advantage of this dis- 
covery.” 

“Yes, by Jove!” the Superintendent agreed, emphati- 
cally. “It would be a disaster. At present, the late Mr. 
Crile is at large, perfectly happy and secure and entirely 
off his guard. We can just follow him up at our leisure 
and take him unawares. But if he got wind of this, he 
would be out of reach in a twinkling—that is, if he is 
alive, which I suppose ” and here the Superintendent 
suddenly paused, with knitted brows. : 

“Exactly,” said Thorndyke. “The advantage of sur- 
prise is with us, and we must keep it at all costs. You 
realize the position,” he added, addressing the cemetery 
official and the Medical Officer. 





220 THE D’ARBLAY "MYSTERY 


“Perfectly,” the latter replied, a little glumly, I thought, 
“and you may rely on us both to do everything that we 
can to keep the affair secret.” 

With this we all emerged from the screen and walked 
back slowly towards the gate; and as we went, I strove 
vainly to get my ideas into some kind of order. But 
the more I considered the astonishing event which had 
just happened the more incomprehensible did it appear. 
And yet I saw plainly that it could not really be incom- 
prehensible since Thorndyke had actually arrived at its 
probability in advance. The glaring discrepancies and 
inconsistencies which chased one another through my 
mind could not be real. They must be susceptible of 
reconciliation with the observed facts. But by no effort 
was I able to reconcile them. 

Nor, evidently, was I alone the subject of these diff- 
culties and bewilderments. The Superintendent walked 
with corrugated brows and an air of profound cogitation, 
and even Usher—when he could detach his thoughts from 
the juvenile choir at the funeral—was obviously puzzled. 
In fact, it was he who opened the discussion as the 
carriage moved off. 

“This job,’ he observed with conviction, “is what the 
sporting men would call a fair knock-out. I can’t make 
head nor tail of it. You talk of the late Mr. Crile being 
at large and perfectly happy. But the late Mr. Crile died 
of cancer of the pancreas. I attended him in his illness. 
There was no doubt about the cancer, though I wouldn’t 
swear to the pancreas. But he died of cancer all right. 
I saw him dead; and, what is more, I helped to put him 
into that coffin. What do you say to that, Dr. Thorn- 
dyke?” 





A SURPRISE FOR THE SUPERINTENDENT 221 | 


“What is there to say?’ was the elusive reply. ‘You 
are a competent observer, and your facts are beyond 
dispute. But inasmuch as Mr. Crile was not in that 
coffin when we opened it, the unavoidable inference is 
that after you had put him in, somebody else must have 
taken him out.” 

“Yes, that is clear enough,” rejoined Usher. “But 
what has become of him? The man was dead; that I 
am ready to swear to. But where is he?” 

“Yes,” said Miller, “That is what is bothering me. 
There has evidently been some hanky-panky. But I can’t 
follow it. It isn’t as though we were dealing with a sup- 
posititious body. There was a real dead man. That 
isn’t disputed—at least, I take it that it isn’t.” 

“It certainly is not disputed by me,” said Thorndyke. 

“Then what the deuce became of him? And why, in 
the name of blazes, was he taken out of the coffin? That’s 
what I want to know. Can you tell me, Doctor? But 
there! What is the good of asking you? Of course 
you know all about it! You always do. But it is the 
same old story. You have got the ace of trumps up 
your sleeve, but you won’t bring it out until it is time 
to take the trick. Now isn’t that the position, Doctor?” 

-Thorndyke’s impassive face softened with a faint, in- 
scrutable smile. 

“We hold a promising hand, Miller,” he replied quietly ; 
“but if the ace is there, it is you who will have the satis- 
faction of playing it. And I hope to see you put it down 
quite soon.” 

Miller grunted. ‘Very well,” said he. “TI can see that 
I am not going to get any more out of you than that; 
so I must wait for you to develop your plans, Mean- 


eee THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


while I am going to ask Dr. Usher for a signed state- 
ment.” 

“Yes, that is very necessary,” said Thorndyke. “You 
two had better go on together and set down Gray and me 
in the Kingsland-road, where he and I have some other 
business to transact.” 

I glanced at him quickly as he made this istonsahies 
statement—for we had no business there, or anywhere 
else that I knew of. But I said nothing. My recent 
training had not been in vain. 

A few minutes later, near to Dalston Junction, he 
stopped the carriage, and, having made our adieux, we 
got out. Then Thorndyke strode off down the Kings- 
land-road but presently struck off westward through a 
bewildering maze of seedy suburban streets and shabby 
squares in which I was as completely lost as if I had been 
dropped into the midst of the Sahara. 

“What is the nature of the business that we are going 
to transact?’ I ventured to ask as we turned yet another 
corner. 

“In the first place,” he replied, “I wanted to hear what 
conclusions you had reached in view of this discovery at 
the cemetery.” 

“Well, that won’t take long,” I said, with a grin. 
“They can be summed up in half a dozen words: I have 
come to the concltision that I am a fool.” 

He laughed good-humouredly. “There is no harm in 
thinking that,” he said, “provided you are not right— 
which you are not. But did that empty coffin suggest no 
new ideas to you?” 

“On the contrary,” I replied, “it scattered the few ideas 


A SURPRISE FOR THE SUPERINTENDENT 223 


that I had. Iam in the same condition as Superintendent 
Miller: an inextricable muddle.” 

“But,” he objected, “you are not in the same position 
as the Superintendent. If he knew all that you and I 
know, he wouldn’t be in a muddle at all. What is your 
difficulty ?” 

“Primarily the discrepancies about this man Crile. 
There seems to be no possible doubt that he died. But 
apparently he was never buried; and you and Miller seem 
to believe that he is still alive. Further, I don’t see what 
business Crile is of ours at all.” 

“You will see that presently,” said he, ‘and meanwhile 
you must not confuse Miller’s beliefs with mine. How- 
ever,’ he added, as we crossed a bridge over a canal— 
presumably the Regent’s Canal—“we will adjourn the 
discussion for the moment. Do you know what street 
that is ahead of us?” 

“No,” I answered; “I have never been here before, so- 
far as I know.” 

“That is Field-street,” said he. 

“The street that the late Mr. Crile lived in?” 

“Yes,” he answered; and as we passed on into the 
street from the foot of the bridge, he added, pointing to 
-a house on our left hand: “And that is the residence of 
the late Mr. Crile—empty, and to let, as you observe.” 

As we walked past I looked curiously at the house, with 
its shabby front and its blank, sightless windows, its deso- 
late condition emphasized by the bills which announced it; 
but I made no remark until we came to the bottom of the 
street, when I recognized the cross road as the one along 
which I used to pass on my way to the Morrises’ house. 


224 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


I mentioned the fact to Thorndyke, and he replied: “Yes. 
That is where we are going now. We are going to take 
a look over the premises. That house also is empty, and 
I have got a permit from the agent to view it and have 
been entrusted with the keys.” 

In a few minutes we turned into the familiar little 
thoroughfare, and as we took our way past its multi- 
tudinous stalls and barrows I speculated on the object 
of this exploration. But it was futile to ask questions, 
seeing that I had but to wait a matter of minutes for 
the answer to declare itself. Soon we reached the house 
and halted for a moment to look through the glazed door 
into the empty shop. Then Thorndyke inserted the key 
into the side door and pushed it open. 

There is always something a little melancholy in the 
sight of an empty house which one has known in its 
occupied state. Nothing, indeed, could be more cheerless 
than the Morris household; yet it was with a certain feel- 
ing of depression that I looked down the long passage 
(where Cropper had bumped his head in the dark) and 
heard the clang of the closing door. This was a dead 
house—a mere empty shell. The feeble life that I had 
known in it was no more. So I reflected as I walked 
slowly down the passage at Thorndyke’s side, recalling 
the ungracious personalities of Mrs. Morris and her hus- 
band and the pathetic figure of poor Mr. Bendelow. 

When from the passage we came out into the hall, the 
sense of desolation was intensified, for here not only the 
bare floor and vacant walls proclaimed the untenanted 
state of the house. The big curtain that had closed in 
the end of the hall, and to a great extent furnished it, 
was gone, leaving the place very naked and chill. Inci- 


A SURPRISE FOR: THE SUPERINTENDENT 225 


dentally, its disappearance revealed a feature of whose 
existence I had been unaware. 

“Why,” I exclaimed, “they had a second street door. 
I never saw that. It was hidden by a curtain. But it 
can’t open into Market-street.” 

“It doesn’t,” replied Thorndyke. “It opens on Field- 
street.” 

“On Field-street!” I repeated in surprise. “I wonder 
why they didn’t let me in that way. It is really the front 
of the house.” 

“TI think,” answered Thorndyke, “that if you open the 
door and look out, you will understand why you were 
admitted at the back.” 

I unbolted the door, and, opening it, stepped out on 
the wide threshold and looked up and down the street. 
Thorndyke was right. The thoroughfare was undoubt- 
edly Field-street, down which we had passed only a few 
minutes ago, and close by, on the right hand, was the 
canal bridge. Strongly impressed with the oddity of 
the affair, I turned to re-enter, and as I turned I glanced 
up at the number on the door. As my eye lighted on it 
I uttered a cry of astonishment.. For the number was 
fifty-two! 

“But this is amazing!” I exclaimed, re-entering the 
hall—where Thorndyke stood watching me with quiet 
* amusement—and shutting the door. “It seems that Usher 
and I were actually visiting at the same house.” 

“Evidently,” said he. 

“But it almost looks as if we were visiting the same 
patient !’’ 

“There can be practically no doubt that you were,” he 
agreed. “Jt was on that assumption that I induced Miller 


226 THE D’ARBLAY MYStERY 


to apply for the exhumation order, and the empty coffin 
seems to confirm it completely.” 

I was thunderstruck, not only by the incredible thing 
that had happened, but by Thorndyke’s uncanny knowl- 
edge of all the circumstances. 

“Then,” I ‘said, after a pause, “17> Usher Same 
were attending the same man, we were both attending 
Bendelow.” 

“That is certainly what the appearances suggest,’ he 
agreed. 

“Tt was undoubtedly Bendelow who was cremated,” 
said I. 

“All the circumstances seem to point to that conclu- 
sion,” he admitted, ‘unless you can think of any that 
point in the opposite direction.” 

“T cannot,” I replied. ‘Everything points in the same 
direction. The dead man was seen and identified as 
Bendelow by those two ladies, Miss Dewsnep and Miss 
Bonington, and they not only saw him here, but they 
actually saw him in his coffin just before it was passed 
through into the crematorium. And there is no doubt 
that they knew Bendelow by sight, for you remember 
that they recognized the photograph of him that the 
American detective showed them.” 

“Yes,” he admitted, ‘that is so. But their identifica- 
tion is a point that requires further investigation. And 
it is a vitally important point. I have my own hypothesis 
as to what took place, but that hypothesis will have to 
be tested; and that test will be what the logicians would 
call the Experimentum Crucis. It will settle one way or 
the other whether my theory of this case is correct. If 
my hypothesis as to their identification is true, there will 





A SURPRISE FOR THE SUPERINTENDENT 227 


be nothing left to investigate. The case will be complete 
and ready to turn over to Miller.” 

I listened to this statement in complete bewilderment. 
Thorndyke’s reference to “the case” conveyed nothing 
definite to me. It was all so involved that I had almost 
lost count of the subject of our investigation. 

“When you speak of ‘the case,’ ’’ said I, “what case are 
you referring to?” 

“My dear Gray!’ he protested. “Do you not realize 
that we are trying to discover who murdered Julius 
D’Arblay ?” 

“T thought you were,” I answered; “but I can’t connect 
this new mystery with his death in any way.” 

“Never mind,” said he. “When the case is completed 
we will have a general elucidation. Meanwhile there is 
something else that I have to show you before we go. 
It is through this side door.” 

He led me out into a large neglected garden and along 
a wide path that was all overgrown with weeds. As we 
went, I tried to collect and arrange my confused ideas, 
and suddenly a new discrepancy occurred to me. I pro- 
ceeded to propound it. * 

“By the way, you are not forgetting that the two 
alleged deaths were some days apart? I saw Bendelow 
dead ona Monday. He had died on the preceding after- 
noon, But Crile’s funeral had already taken place a day 
or two previously.” 

“T see no difficulty in that,’ Thorndyke replied. 
“Crile’s funeral occurred, as I have ascertained, on a 
Saturday. You saw Bendelow alive for the last time 
on Thursday morning. Usher was sent for, and saw 
Crile dead on Thursday evening, he having evidently 


228 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


died—with or without assistance—soon after you left. 
Of course, the date of death given to you was false; and 
you mention in your notes of the case that both you and 
Cropper were surprised at the condition of the body. The 
previous funeral offers no difficulty, seeing that we know 
that the coffin was empty. This is what I thought you 
might be interested to see.” 

He pointed to a flight of stone steps, at the bottom of 
which was a wooden gate set in the wall that enclosed 
the garden. I looked at the steps—a little vacantly, I 
am afraid—and inquired what there was about them that 
I was expected to find of interest. 

“Perhaps,” he replied, “you will see better if we open 
the gate.” 

We descended the steps, and he inserted a key into the 
gate, drawing my attention to the fact that the lock had 
been oiled at no very distant date and was in quite good 
condition. Then he threw the gate open, and we both 
stepped out on to the tow-path of the canal. I looked 
about me in considerable surprise, for we were within a 
few yards of the hut with the derrick and the little wharf 
from which I had been flung into the canal. 

“TI remember this gate,” said I; “in fact, I think I 
mentioned it to you in my account of my adventure here. 
But I little imagined that it belonged to the Morris’ house. 
It would have been a short way in, if I had known. But 
I expect it was locked at the time.” 

“I expect it was,” Thorndyke agreed, and thereupon 
turned and re-entered. We passed once more down the 
long passage, and came out into Market-street, when 
Thorndyke locked the door and pocketed the key. 

“That is an extraordinary arrangement,” I remarked; 
“one house having two frontages on separate streets.” 





A SURPRISE FOR THE SUPERINTENDENT 229 


“It is not a very uncommon one,” Thorndyke replied. 
“You see how it comes about. A house fronting on one 
street has a long back garden extending to another street 
which is not yet fully built on. As the new street fills 
up, a shop is built at the end of the garden. A small 
house may be built in connexion with it and cut off from 
the garden, or the shop may be connected with the origi- 
nal house, as in this instance. But in either case the shop 
belongs to the new street and has its own number. What 
are you going to do now?” : 

“IT am going straight on to the studio,’ I replied. 

“You had better come and have an early lunch with 
me first,’ said he. “There is no occasion to hurry. 
Polton is there and you won't easily get rid of him, for 
I understand that Miss D’Arblay is doing the finishing 
work on a wax bust.” 

“I ought to see that, too,” said I. 

He looked at me with a mischievous smile. “I expect 
you will have plenty of opportunities in the future,” said 
he, “whereas Polton must make hay while the sun shines. 
And, by the way, he may have something to tell you. I 
have instructed him to make arrangements with those two 
ladies, Miss Dewsnep and her friend, to go into the ques- 
tion of their identification of Bendelow. I want you to 
be present at the interview, but I have left him to fix 
the date. Possibly he has made the arrangement by now. 
You had better ask him.” 

At this moment, an eligible omnibus making its ap- 
pearance, we both climbed on board and were duly con- 
veyed to King’s Cross, where we alighted and lunched 
at a modest restaurant, thereafter separating to go our 
respective ways north and south. 


CHAPTER XVII 
A CHAPTER OF SURPRISES 


In answer to my knock the studio door was opened by 
Polton; and as I met his eyes for a moment I was con- 
scious of something unusual in his appearance. I had 
scanty opportunity to examine him, for he seemed to be 
in a hurry, bustling away after a few hasty words of 
apology and returning whence he had come. Following 
close on his heels, I saw what was the occasion of his 
hurry. He was engaged with a brush and a pot of melted 
wax in painting a layer of the latter on the insides of 
the moulds of a pair of arms, while Marion, seated on a 
high stool, was working at a wax bust, which was placed 
on a revolving modelling-stand, obliterating the seams 
and other irregularities with a steel tool which she heated 
from time to time at a small spirit lamp. 

When I had made my salutations, I offered my help 
to Polton, which he declined—without looking up from 
his work—saying that he wanted to carry the job through 
by himself. I sympathized with this natural desire, but 
_ it left me without occupation; for the work which Marion 
was doing was essentially a one-person job, and in any 
' case was far beyond the capabilities of either of the ap- 
prentices. For a minute or two I stood idly looking on 
at Polton’s proceedings, but, noticing that my presence 
seemed to worry him, I presently moved away—again 
with a vague impression that there was something un- _ 

230 : 





A CHAPTER OF SURPRISES 231 


usual in his appearance—and, drawing up another high 
stool beside Marion’s, settled myself to take a lesson in 
the delicate and difficult technique of surface finishing. 

We were all very silent. My two companions were 
engrossed by their respective occupations, and I must 
needs refrain from distracting them by untimely conversa- 
tion; so I sat, well content to watch the magical tool steal- 
ing caressingly over the wax surface, causing the dis- 
figuring seams to vanish miraculously into an unbroken 
contour. But my own attention was somewhat divided; 
for even as I watched the growing perfection of the bust 
there would float into my mind now and again an idle 
speculation as to the change in Polton’s appearance. 
What could it be? It was something that seemed to have 
altered, to some extent, his facial expression. It couldn’t 
be that he had shaved off his moustache or whiskers, for 
he had none to shave. Could he have parted his hair in 
a new way? It seemed hardly sufficient to account for 
the change; and looking round at him cautiously I could 
detect nothing unfamiliar about his hair. 

At this point he picked up his wax-pot and carried it 
away to the farther end of the studio to exchange it for 
another which was heating in a water-bath. I took the 
opportunity to lean towards Marion and ask in a whisper: 

“Have you noticed anything unusual about Polton?” 

She nodded emphatically, and cast a furtive glance over 
her shoulder in his direction. 

“What is it?’ I asked in the same low tone. 

She took another precautionary glance, and then lean- 
ing towards me with an expression of exaggerated 
mystery, whispered: 

“He has cut his eyelashes off.” 


232 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


I gazed at her in amazement, and was about to put a 
further question, but she held up a warning forefinger 
and turned again to her work. However, my curiosity 
was now at boiling-point. As soon as Polton returned 
to his bench, I slipped off my stool and sauntered over 
to it on the pretence of seeing how his wax cast was 
progressing. 

Marion’s report was perfectly correct. His eyelids 
were as bare of lashes as those of a marble bust. And 
this was not all. Now that I came to look at him criti- 
cally, his eyebrows had a distinctly moth-eaten appear- 
ance. He had.been doing something to them, too, 

It was an amazing affair. For one moment I was on 
the point of demanding an explanation, but good sense 
and good manners conquered the inquisitive impulse in 
time. Returning to my stool I cast an enquiring glance 
at Marion, from whom, however, I got no enlightenment 
but such as I could gather from a most alluring dimple 
that hovered about the corner of her mouth and that 
speedily diverted my thoughts into other channels. 

My two companions continued for some time to work 
silently, leaving me to my meditations—which concerned 
themselves alternately with Polton’s eyelashes and the 
dimple aforesaid. Suddenly Marion turned to me and 
asked : 

“Has Mr. Polton told you that we are all to have a 
holiday to-morrow ?”’ 

“No,” I answered; “but Dr. Thorndyke mentioned that 
Mr. Polton might have something to tell us. Why are 
we all to have a holiday?” . 

“Why, you see, sir,” said Polton, standing up and for- 





A CHAPTER OF SURPRISES 233 


getting all about his eyelashes, “the Doctor instructed me 
to make an appointment with those two ladies, Miss 
Dewsnep and Miss Bonington, to come to our chambers 
on a matter of identification. I have made the appoint- 
ment for ten o’clock to-morrow morning; and as the 
Doctor wants you to be present at the interview and wants 
me to be in attendance, and we can’t leave Miss D’Arblay 
here alone, we have arranged to shut up the studio for 
to-morrow.” 

“Yes,” said Marion; “and Arabella and I are going to 
spend the morning looking at the shops in Regent-street, 
and then we are coming to lunch with you and Dr, Thorn- 
dyke. It will be quite a red-letter day.” 

“T don’t quite see what these ladies are coming to the 
chambers for,” said I. 

“You will see, all in good time, sir,” replied Polton; 
and, as if to head me off from any further questions, he 
added: “I forgot to ask how your little party went off 
this morning.” 

“Tt went off with a bang,” I answered. ‘We got the 
coffin up all right, but Mr. Fox wasn’t at home. The 
coffin was empty.” 

“T rather think that was what the Doctor expected,” 
said Polton. 

Marion looked at me with eager curiosity. “This 
sounds rather thrilling,’ she said. “May one ask who 
it was that you expected to find in that coffin?” 

“My impression is,” I replied, “that the missing tenant 
was a person who bore a strong resemblance to that 
photograph that I showed you.” 

“Oh, dear!’’ she exclaimed. “What a pity! I wish 


234. THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


that coffin hadn’t been empty. But, of course, it could 
hardly have been occupied, under the circumstances. I 
suppose I mustn’t ask for fuller details?” 

“T don’t imagine that there is any secrecy about the 
affair, so far as you are concerned,” I answered; “but I 
would rather that you had the details from Dr. Thorn- 
dyke, or, at least, with his express authority. He is con- 
ducting the investigations, and what I know has been 
imparted to me in confidence.” 

This view was warmly endorsed by Polton (who had 
by now either forgotten his eyelashes or abandoned con- 
cealment as hopeless). The subject was accordingly 
dropped, and the two workers resumed their occupations. 
When Polton had painted a complete skin of wax over 
the interior of both pairs of moulds, I helped him to put 
the latter together and fasten them with cords. Then 
into each completed mould we poured enough melted wax 
to fill it, and after a few seconds poured it out again, 
leaving a solid layer to thicken the skin and unite the 
two halves of the wax cast. This finished Polton’s job, 
and shortly afterwards he took his departure. Nor did 
we remain very much longer, for the final stages of the 
surface finishing were too subtle to be carried out by 
artificial light, and had to be postponed until daylight 
was available. 

As we walked homewards we discussed the situation 
so far as was possible without infringing Thorndyke’s 
confidences. | 

“IT am very confused and puzzled about it all,” she 
said. “It seems that Dr. Thorndyke is trying to get on 
the track of the man who murdered my father. But 
whenever I hear any details of his investigations they - 


. 





A CHAPTER OF SURPRISES 235 


always seem to be concerned with somebody else or with 
something that has no apparent connexion with the crime. 

“That is exactly my condition,’ said I. “He seems 
to be busily working at problems that are totally irrele- 
vant. As far as I can make out, the murderer has never 
once come into sight, excepting when he appeared at the 
studio that terrible night. The people in whom Thorn- 
dyke has interested himself are mere outsiders—sus- 
picious characters, no doubt, but not suspected of the 
murder. This man, Crile, for instance, whose empty 
coffin we dug up, was certainly a shady character. But 
he was not the murderer, though he seems to have been 
associated with the murderer at one time. Then there is 
that fellow Morris, whose mask we found at the studio. 
He is another queer customer. But he is certainly not 
the murderer, though he was also probably an associate. 
-Thorndyke has taken an immense interest in him. But 
I can’t see why. He doesn’t seem to me to be in the 
picture, or, at any rate, not in the foreground of it. Of 
the actual murderer we seem to know nothing at all—at 
least, that is my position.” 

“Do you think Dr. Thorndyke has really got anything 
to go on?” she asked. 

“My dear Marion,’ I exclaimed, “I am confident that 
he has the whole case cut and dried and perfectly clear 
in his mind. What I was saying referred only to myself. 
My ideas are all in confusion, but Mis are not. He can 
see quite clearly who is in the picture and in what part 
of it. The blindness is mine. But let us wait and see 
what to-morrow brings forth. I havea sort of feeling— 
in fact, he hinted—that this interview is the final move. 
-He may have something to tell you when you arrive.” 


8 


236 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


’ 


“T do hope he may,” she said earnestly; and with this 
we dismissed the subject. A few minutes later we parted 
at the gate of Ivy Cottage, and I took my way (by the 
main thoroughfares) home to my lodgings. 

On the following morning I made a point of presenting 
myself at Thorndyke’s chambers well in advance of the 
appointed time in order that I might have a few words 
with him before the two ladies arrived. With the same 
purpose, no doubt, Superintendent Miller took a similar 
course, the result being that we converged simultaneously 
at the entry and ascended the stairs together. The “oak” 
was already open, and the inner door was opened by 
Thorndyke, who smilingly remarked that he seemed 
thereby to have killed two early birds with one stone. 

“So you have, Doctor,’ assented the Superintendent— 
“two early birds who have come betimes to catch the 
elusive worm—and I suspect they won’t catch him.” 

“Don’t be pessimistic, Miller,” said Thorndyke with a 
quiet chuckle. “He isn’t such a slippery worm as that. 
I suppose you want to know something of the pro- 
gramme?” 

“Naturally, I do, and so, I suppose, does Dr. Gray.” 

“Well,” said Thorndyke, “I am not going to tell you 
much < 

“T knew it,” groaned Miller. 

“Because it will be better for every one to have an 
open mind ES 

“Well,” interposed Miller, “mine is open enough. 
Wide open, and nothing inside.” 

“And then,” pursued Thorndyke, “there is the possi- 
bility that we shall not get the result we hoped for, and 











A CHAPTER OF SURPRISES 237 


in that case the less you expect the less you will be 
disappointed.” 

“But,” persisted Miller, “in general terms, what are we 
here for? I understand that those two ladies, the wit- 
nesses to Bendelow’s will, are coming presently. What 
are they coming for? Do you expect to get any infor- 
mation out of them?” 

“I have some hopes,’ he replied, ‘of learning some- 
thing from them. In particular, I want to test them in 
respect of their identification of Bendelow.” 

“Ha! Then you have got a photograph of him?” 

Thorndyke shook his head. “No,” he replied. “I have 
not been able to get a photograph of him.” 

“Then you have an exact description of him?” 

“No,” was the reply. “I have no description of him 
at all.’ 

The Superintendent banged his hat on the table. 
“Then what the deuce have you got, sir?’ he demanded 
distractedly. “You must have something, you know, if 
you are going to test these witnesses on the question of 
identification. You haven’t got a photograph, you haven’t 
got a description, and you can’t have the man himself 
because he is at present reposing in a little terra-cotta pot 
in the form of bone-ash. Now, what have you got?” 

Thorndyke regarded the exasperated Superintendent 
with an inscrutable smile and then glanced at Polton, 
who had just stolen into the room and was now listen- 
ing with an expression of such excessive crinkliness that 
I wrote him down an accomplice on the spot. 

“You had better ask Polton,”’ said Thorndyke. . ‘He 
is the stage manager on this occasion.” 


238 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


The Superintendent turned sharply to confront my 
fellow apprentice, whose eyes thereupon disappeared into 
a labyrinth of crow’s-feet. 

“It’s no use asking me, sir,” said he. “I’m only an 
accessory before the fact, so to speak. But you’ll know 
all about it when the ladies arrive—and I rather think I 
hear ’em coming now.” 

In corroboration, light footsteps and feminine voices 
became audible, apparently ascending our stairs. We 
hastily seated ourselves while Polton took his station by 
the door and Thorndyke said to me in a low voice: 

“Remember, Gray, no comments of any kind. These 
witnesses must act without any sort of suggestion from 
anybody.” 

I gave a quick assent, and at that moment Polton threw 
open the door with a flourish and announced majestically : 

“Miss Dewsnep, Miss Bonington.” 

We all rose, and Thorndyke advanced to receive his 
visitors, while Polton placed chairs for them. 

“Tt is exceedingly good of you to take all this trouble 
to help us,” said Thorndyke. “I hope it was not in any 
way inconvenient to you to come here this morning.” 

“Oh, not at all,” replied Miss Dewsnep; “only we are 
not quite clear as to what it is that you want us to do.” 

“We will go into that question presently,” said Thorn- 
dyke. ‘“‘Meanwhile, may I introduce to you these two 
gentlemen, who are interested in our little business—Mr. 
Miller and Dr. Gray?” 

The two ladies bowed; and Miss Dewsnep remarked: 

“We are already acquainted with Dr. Gray. We had 
the melancholy pleasure of meeting him at Mrs. Morris’ 
house on the sad occasion when he came to examine the 






A CHAPTER OF SURPRISES 239 


mortal remains of poor Mr. Bendelow, who is now with 
the angels.” 

“And no doubt,” added Miss Bonington, “in extremely 
congenial society.” 

At this statement of Miss Dewsnep’s the Superin- 
tendent turned and looked at me sharply with an expres- 
sion of enlightenment; but he made no remark, and the 
latter lady returned to her original inquiry. 

“You were going to tell us what it is that you want 
us to do.” 

“Yes,” replied Thorndyke. “It is quite a simple matter. 
We want you to look at the face of a certain person who 
will be shown to you, and to tell us if you recognize and 
can give a name to that person.” 

“Not an insane person, 1 hope!” exclaimed Miss 
Dewsnep. 

“No,” Thorndyke assured her, “not an insane person.” 

“Nor a criminal person in custody, I trust,’’ added 
Miss Bonington. 

“Certainly not,’’ replied Thorndyke. “In short, let me 
assure you that the inspection of this person need not 
cause you the slightest embarrassment. It will be a per- 
fectly simple affair, as you will see. But perhaps we 
had better proceed at once. If you two gentlemen will 
follow Polton, I will conduct the ladies upstairs myself.” 

On this we rose, and Miller and I followed Polton out 
on to the landing, where he turned and began to ascend 
the stairs at a slow and solemn pace, as if he were con- 
ducting a funeral. The Superintendent walked at my 
side and muttered as he went, being evidently in a state 
of bewilderment fully equal to my own. 

“Now, what the blazes,” he growled, ‘“‘can the Doctor 


240 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


be up to now? I never saw such a man for springing — 
surprises on one. But who the deuce can he have up 
there?” 3 

At the top of the second flight we came on to a landing 
and, proceeding along it, reached a door which Polton 
unlocked and opened. 

“You understand, gentlemen,” he said, halting in the - 
doorway, “that no remarks or comments are to be 
made until the witnesses have gone. Those were my 
instructions.” 

With this he entered the room, closely followed by 
Miller, who, as he crossed the threshold, set at naught 


Polton’s instructions by exclaiming in a startled voice: — 


“Snakes!” 


I followed quickly, all agog with curiosity, but what- 


ever I had expected to see—if I had expected anything— 
I was totally unprepared for what I did see. 


The room was a smallish room, completely bare and 


empty of furniture save for four chairs—on two of . 
which Polton firmly seated us; and in the middle of the 
floor, raised on a pair of trestles, was a coffin covered with 
a black linen cloth. At this gruesome object Miller and 
I gazed in speechless astonishment, but, apart from 
Polton’s injunction, there was no opportunity for an 
exchange of sentiments; for we had hardly taken our 
seats when we heard the sound of ascending footsteps 
mingled with Thorndyke’s bland and persuasive accents. 
A few moments later the party reached the door; and 
as the two ladies came in sight of the coffin, both started 
back with a cry of alarm. 

“Oh, dear!’ exclaimed: Miss Dewsnep, “it’s a dead 
person! Whois it, sir? Is it any one we know?” 





Peeier tik OF SURPRISES 241 


“That is what we want you to tell us,” Thorndyke 
replied. 

“How mysterious!” exclaimed Miss Bonington, in a 
hushed voice. “How dreadful! Some poor creature who 
has been found dead, I suppose? I hope it won’t be 
very—er—you know what I mean, sir—when the coffin 
is opened.,”’ 

“There will be no need to open the coffin,” Thorndyke 
reassured her, “There is an inspection window in the 
coffin-lid through which you can see the face. All you 
have to do is to look through the window and tell us 
if the face that you see is the face of any one who is 
known to you. Are you ready, Polton?”’ 

Polton replied that he was, having taken up his posi- 
tion at the head of the coffin with an air of profound 
gravity, approaching to gloom. The two ladies shuddered 
audibly, but their nervousness being now overcome by a 
devouring curiosity, they advanced, one on either side of 
the coffin, and, taking up a position close to Polton, gazed 
eagerly at the covered coffin. There was a solemn pause 
as Polton carefully gathered up the two corners of the 
linen pall. Then, with a quick movement, he threw it 
back. The two witnesses simultaneously stooped and 
peered in at the window. Simultaneously their mouths 
opened, and they sprang back with a shriek. 

“Why, it’s Mr. Bendelow!” 

“You are quite sure it is Mr. Bendelow?”’ Thorndyke 
asked. 

“Perfectly,” replied Miss Dewsnep. “And yet,’ she 
continued with a mystified look, “it can’t be; for I saw 
him passed through the bronze doors into the cremation 
furnace. I saw him with my own eyes,” she added, 


242 THE D’ARBLAY MYs PERRY 


somewhat unnecessarily. ‘‘And what’s more, I saw his 
ashes in the casket.” 

She gazed with wide-open eyes at Thorndyke, and then 
at her friend, and the two women tiptoed forward and 
once more stared in at the window with starting eyes and 
dropped chins. 

“Tt is Mr. Bendelow,” said Miss Bonington, in an awe- 
stricken voice. 

“But it can’t be,’ Miss Dewsnep protested in tremu- 
lous tones. “You saw him put through those doors your- 
self, Susan, and you saw his ashes afterwards.” 

“T can’t help that, Sarah,” the other lady retorted. 
“This is Mr. Bendelow. You can’t deny that it is.” 

“Our eyes must be deceived,” said Miss Dewsnep, the 
said eyes being still riveted on the face within the window. 
“Tt can’t be—and yet it is—but yet it is impossible——”’ 

She paused suddenly, and raised a distinctly alarmed 
face to her friend. 

“Susan,” she said, in a low, rather shaky voice, “there 
is something here with which we, as Christian women, are 
better not concerned. Something against nature. The 
dead has been recalled from a burning fiery furnace by 
some means which we may not inquire into. It were 
better, Susan, that we should now depart from this place.” 

This was evidently Susan’s opinion, too, for she as- 
sented with uncommon alacrity and with a distinctly un- 
comfortable air; and the pair moved with one accord 
towards the door. But Thorndyke gently detained them. 

“Do we understand,” he asked, “that, apart from the 
apparently impossible circumstances, the body in that 
coffin is, in your opinion, the body of the late Simon 
Bendelow ?” 





A CHAPTER OF SURPRISES 243 


“You do,’ Miss Dewsnep replied in a resentfully 
nervous tone and regarding Thorndyke with very evident 
alarm. “If it were possible that it could be, I would 
swear that those unnatural remains were those of my 
poor friend, Mr. Bendelow. As it’s not possible, it can- 
not be.” 

“Thank you,” said Thorndyke with the most extreme 
suavity of manner. “You have done us a great service 
by coming here to-day, and a great service to humanity— 
how great a service you will learn later. I am afraid it 
has been a disagreeable experience to both of you, for 
which I am sincerely sorry; but you must let me assure 
you that there is nothing unlawful or supernatural in 
what you have seen. Later, I hope you will be able to 
realize that. And now I trust that you will allow Mr. 
Polton to accompany you to the dining-room and offer 
you a little refreshment.” 

As neither of the ladies raised any objection to this 
programme, we all took our leave of them, and they 
departed down the stairs, escorted by Polton. When they 
had gone, Miller stepped across to the coffin and cast a 
curious glance in at the window. 

“So that is Mr. Bendelow,” said he. “I don’t think 
mucn of him, and I don’t see how he is going to help us. 
Buc you have given those two old girls a rare shake-up, 
and I don’t wonder. Of course, this can’t be a dead body 
that you have got in this coffin, but it is a most lifelike 
representation of one, and it took in those poor old Judies 
properly. What have you got to tell us about this affair, 
Doctor? I can see that your scheme, whatever it was, 
has come off. They always do. But what about it? 
What has this experiment proved?” 


244 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


“Tt has turned a mere name into an actual person,’ was 
the reply. 

“Yes, I know,” rejoined Miller. “Very interesting, 
too. Now we know exactly what he looked like. But 
what about it? And what is the next move?” 

“The next move on my part is to lay a sworn informa- 
tion against him as the murderer of Julius D’Arblay; 
which I will do now, if you will administer the oath and 
witness my signature.” As he spoke Thorndyke produced 
a paper from his pocket and laid it on the coffin. 

The Superintendent looked at the paper with a sur- 
prised grin. 

“A little late, isn’t it,” he said, “to be swearing an 
information? Of course you can if you like; but when 
you’ve done it, what then?” 

“Then,” replied Thorndyke, “it will be for you to 
arrest him and bring him to trial.”’ 

At this reply the Superintendent’s eyes opened until 
his face might have been a symbolic mask of astonish- 
_ ment. Grasping his hair with both hands, he rose slowly 
from his chair, staring at Thorndyke as if at some alarm- 
ing apparition. 

“You'll be the death of me, Doctor!” he exclaimed. 
“You really will. I am not fit for these shocks at my 
time of life. What is it you ask me to do? I am to 
arrest this man! What man? Here is a wax-work 
gentleman in a coffin—at least, I suppose that is what he 
is—that might have come straight from Madame Tus- 
saud’s. Am I to arrest him? And there is a casket full 
of ashes somewhere. Am I to arrest those? Or am I 
off my head or dreaming ?” 

Thorndyke smiled at him indulgently. ‘Now, Miller,’ 


3) 





Peete ti OF SURPRISES 245 


said he, “don’t pretend to be foolish, because you are not. 
The man whom you are to arrest is a live man, and 
what is more, he is easily accessible whenever you choose 
to lay your hands on him.” 

“Do you know where to find him ?”’ 

“Yes,” Thorndyke replied. “I, myself, will conduct 
you to his house, which is in Abbey-road, Hornsey, pert 
opposite Miss D’Arblay’s studio.” 

I gave a gasp of amazement on hearing this, which 
directed the Superintendent’s attention to me. ? 

“Very well, Doctor,” he said, “I will take your in- 
formation, but you needn’t swear to it: just sign your 
name. I must be off now, but I will look in to-night 
about nine, if that will do, to get the necessary particu- 
lars and settle the arrangements with you. Probably to- 
morrow afternoon will be a good time to make the arrest. 
What do you think ?” 

“T should think it would be an excellent time,” Thorn- 
dyke replied; “but we can settle definitely to-night.” — 

With this, the Superintendent, having taken the signed 
paper from Thorndyke, shook both our hands and bustled 
away with the traces of his late surprise still visible on 
his countenance. 

The recognition of the tenant of the coffin as Simon 
Bendelow had come on me with almost as great a shock 
as it had on the two witnesses, but for a different reason. 
My late experiences enabled me to guess at once that the 
mysterious tenant was a wax-work figure, presumably of 
Polton’s creation. But what I found utterly inexplicable 
was that such a wax-work should have been produced in 
the likeness of a man whom neither Polton nor Thorn- 
dyke had ever seen. The astonishing conversation be- 


* 
Q 


246 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


tween the latter and Miller had, for the moment, driven 
this mystery out of my mind; but as soon as the Super- 
intendent had gone, I stepped over to the coffin and looked 
in at the window. And then I was more amazed than 
ever. For the face that I saw was not the face that I 
had expected to see. There, it is true, was the old 
familiar skull-cap, which Bendelow had worn, pulled 
down over the temples above the jaw-bandage. But it 
was the wrong face (incidentally I now understood what 
had become of Polton’s eyelashes. That conscientious 
realist had evidently taken no risks. ). 

“But,” I protested, “this is not Bendelow. This is 
Morris.” 

Thorndyke nodded. “You have just heard two com- 
petent witnesses declare with complete conviction and 
certainty that this is Simon Bendelow; and, as you, your- 
self, pointed out, there can be no doubt as to their knowl- 
edge of Bendelow since they recognized the photograph 
of him that was shown to them by the American 
detective.” 

“That is perfectly true,’ I admitted. “But it is a 
most incomprehensible affair. This is not the man who 
was cremated.” 

“Evidently not, since he is still alive.” 

“But these two women saw Bendelow cremated—at 
least they saw him passed through into the crematorium, 
which is near enough. And they had seen him in the 
coffin a few minutes before I saw him in the coffin, and 
they saw him again a few minutes after Cropper and 
Morris and I had put him back in the coffin. And the 
man whom we put into the coffin was certainly not this 
man,” 


A CHAPTER OF SURPRISES 247 


“Obviously not, since he helped you to put the corpse 

in.” 
“And again,” I urged; “if the body that we put into 
the coffin was not the body that was cremated, what has 
become of it? It wasn’t buried, for the other coffin was 
empty. Those women must have made some mistake.” 

He shook his head. ‘The solution of the mystery is 
staring you in the face,” said he. “It is perfectly obvious, 
and I am not going to give you any further hints now. 
When we have made the arrest you shall have a full 
exposition of the case. But tell me, now; did those two 
women ever meet Morris?” 

I considered for a few moments and then replied: “I 
have no evidence that they ever met him. They certainly 
never did in my presence. But even if they had, they 
would hardly have recognized him as the person whom 
they have identified to-day. He had grown a beard and 
moustache, you will remember, and his appearance was 
very much altered from what it was when I first saw 
him.” } 

Thorndyke nodded. “It would be,” he agreed. Then, 
turning to another subject, he said: “I am afraid it will 
be necessary for you to be present at the arrest. I would 
much rather that you were not, for he is a dangerous 
brute and will probably fight like a wild cat; but you are 
the only one of us who really knows him by sight in his 
present state.” 

“T should like to be in at the death,” I said eagerly. 

“That is well enough,” said he, “so long as it is his 
death. You must bring your pistol, and don’t be afraid 
to use it.” 

“And how shall I know when I am wanted?” I asked. 


248 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTER 


“You had better go to the studio to-morrow morning,” 
he replied. “I will send a note by Polton giving you 
particulars of the time when we shall call for you. And 
now we may as well help Polton to prepare for our other 
visitors ; and I think, Gray, we will say as little as possible 
about this morning’s proceedings or those of to-morrow. 
Explanations will come better after the event.” 

With this, we went down to the dining-room, where we 
found Polton sedately laying the table, having just got 
rid of the two ladies. We made a show of assistthg him, 
and I ventured to inquire: 

“Who is doing the cooking to-day, Polton? Or is it 
to be a cold lunch?” 

He looked at me almost reproachfully as he replied: 

“Tt is to be a hot lunch, and I am doing the cooking, 
of course.” 

“But,” I protested, “‘you hs been up to your bese 
in other affairs all the morning.” 

He regarded me with a patronizing cate “You can 
do a good deal,” said he, “with one or two casseroles, a 
hay-box, and a four-story cooker on a gas stove. Things 
don’t cook any better for your standing and staring at 
them.” 

Events went to prove the soundness of Polton’s 
culinary principles; and the brilliant success of their ap- 
plication in practice gave a direction to the conversation 


which led it comfortably away from other and less dis- 


cussable topics. 


CHAPTER XVIII 
Maa AST ACT 


SHORTLY before leaving Thorndyke’s chambers with 
Marion and Miss Boler I managed to secure his permis- 
sion to confide to them, in general terms, what was to 
happen on the morrow; and very relieved I was thereat, 
for I had little doubt that questions would be asked which 
it would seem ungracious to evade. Events proved that I 
was not mistaken; indeed, we were hardly clear of the 
precincts of the Temple when Marion opened the inquisi- 
tion. 

“You said yesterday,” she began, “‘that Dr. Thorndyke 
might have something to tell us to-day, and I hoped that 
he might. I even tried to pluck up courage to ask him, 
but then I was afraid that it might seem intrusive. He 
isn’t the sort of man that you can take liberties with. So 
I suppose that whatever it was that happened this morn- 
ing is a dead secret?” 

“Not entirely,” I replied. “I mustn’t go into details 
at present, but I am allowed to give you the most im- 
portant item of information. There is going to be an 
arrest to-morrow.” | 

“Do you mean that Dr. Thorndyke has discovered the 
man?” Marion demanded incredulously. 

“He says that he has, and I take it that he knows. 
What is more, he offered to conduct the police to the 
house. He has actually given them the address.” 

249 


Be0"". THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


“T would give all that I possess,” exclaimed Miss 
Boler, “‘to be there and see the villain taken.” 

“Well,” I said, “you won’t be far away, for the man 
lives in Abbey-road, nearly opposite the studio.” 

Marion stopped and looked at me aghast. “What a 
horrible thing to think of,” she gasped. “Oh, I am glad 
I didn’t know! I could never have gone to the studio if 
I had. But now we can understand how he managed 
to find his way to the place that foggy night, and to escape 
so easily.” 

“Oh, but it is not that man,” I interposed, with a sud- 
den sense of hopeless bewilderment. For J had forgot- 
ten this absolute discrepancy when I was talking to Thorn- 
dyke about the identification. 

“Not that man!” she repeated, gazing at me in wild 
astonishment. “But that man was my father’s murderer. 
I feel certain of it.” 

“So do I,” was my rather lame rejoinder. 

“‘Besides,”’ she persisted; “if he was not the murderer, 
who was he, and why should he want to kill me?” 

“Exactly,” I agreed, “it seems conclusive. But ap- 
parently it isn’t. At any rate, the man they are going 
to arrest is the man whose mask Thorndyke found at 
the studio.” 

“Then they are going to arrest the wrong man,” said 
she, looking at me with a deeply troubled face. I was un- 
comfortable, too, for I saw what was in her mind. The 
memory of the ruffan who had made that murderous 
attack on her still lingered in her mind as a thing of 
horror. The thought that he was still at large and might 
at any moment reappear, made it impossible for her ever 
to work alone in the studio, or even to walk abroad with- 


’ 





Pee al ACT 251 


out protection. She had looked, as I had, to the discovery 
of the murderer to rid her of this abiding menace. But 
now it seemed that even alter the arrest of the murderer, 
-this terrible menace would remain. 

“T can’t understand it,” she said dejectedly. “When 
you showed me that photograph of the man who tried to 
kill me, I naturally hoped that Dr. Thorndyke had dis- 
covered who he was. But now it appears that he is at 
large and still untraced, yet I am convinced that he is the 
man who ought to have been followed.” 

“Never mind, my dear,” I said cheerfully. “Let us 
see the affair out. You don’t understand it and neither 
do I. But Thorndyke does. I have absolute faith in him, 
and so, I can see, have the police.” Be. 

She assented without much conviction, and then Miss 
Boler began to press for further particulars. I men- 
tioned the probable time of the arrest and the part that I 
was required to play in identifying the accused. 

“Yqu don’t mean that you are asked to be present 
when the actual arrest is made, do you?” Marion asked 
anxiously. 

“Yes,’ lanswered. “You see I am the only person who 
really knows the man by sight.” 

“But,” she urged, “you are not a policeman. Suppose 
this man should be violent, like that other man; and he 
probably will be.” | 

“Oh,” I answered airily, “that will be provided for. 
Besides, I am not asked to arrest him; only to point him 
out to the police.” 

“T wish,” she said, “you would stay in the studio 
until they have secured him. Then you could go and 
identify him. That would be much safer.” 


252 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


“No doubt,” I agreed. ‘But it might lead to their 
arresting the wrong man and letting the right one slip. 
No, Marion, we must make sure of him if we can. 
Surely you are at least as anxious as any of us that he 
should be caught and made to pay the penalty?” 

“Ves,” she answered, “if he is really the right man— 
which I can hardly believe. But still, punishing him 
will not bring poor Daddy back, whereas if anything 
were to happen to you, Stephen——— Oh! I don’t dare to 
think of it!” 

“You needn’t think of it, Marion,” I rejoined, cheer- 
fully. “I shall be all right. And you wouldn’t have 
your apprentice hang back when these Bobbies are taking 
the affair as a mere every-day job.” - 

She made no reply beyond another anxious glance; 
and I was glad enough to let the subject drop, bearing 
in mind Thorndyke’s words with regard to the pistol. 
As a diversion, I suggested a visit to the National Gallery, 
which we were now approaching, and the suggestion be- 
ing adopted, without acclamation, we drifted in and rather 
listlessly perambulated the galleries, gazing vacantly at 
the exhibits and exchanging tepid comments. It was a 
spiritless proceeding, of which I remember very little 
but some rather severe observations by Miss Boler con- 
cerning a certain “hussy’” (by one, Bronzino) in the great 
room. But we soon gave up this hollow pretence, and 
went forth to board a yellow *bus which was bound for 
the Archway Tavern; and so home to an early supper. 

On the following morning I made my appearance be- 
times at Ivy Cottage, but it was later than usual when 
Marion and I started to walk in leisurely fashion to the 
studio. 





tee LAST ACT 253 


“T don’t know why we are going at all,” said she. 
“T don’t feel like doing any work.” 

“Let us forget the arrest for the moment,” said I. 
“There is plenty to do. Those arms of Polton’s have 
got to be taken out of the moulds and worked. It will 
be much better to keep ourselves occupied.”’ 

“T suppose it will,” she agreed; and then, as we turned 
a corner and came in sight of the studio, she exclaimed: 
“Why, what on earth is this? There are some painters 
at work on the studio! I wonder who sent them. I 
haven't given any orders. There must be some extraor- 
dinary mistake.” 

There was not, however. As we came up, one of 
the two linen-coated operators advanced, brush in hand, 
to meet us, and briefly explained that he and his mate 
had been instructed by Superintendent Miller to wash 
down the paint-work and keep an eye on the premises 
opposite. They were, in fact, “plain-clothes’ men on 
special duty. 

‘We have been here since seven o’clock,” our friend 
informed us, as we made a pretence of examining the 
window-sashes, ‘‘and we took over from a man who had 
been watching the house all night. My nabs is there 
all right. He came home early yesterday evening, and 
he hasn’t come out since.” 

“Then you know the man by sight?’ Marion asked 
eagerly. 

“Well, Miss,” was the reply, “we have a description 
of him, and the man who went into the house seemed 
to agree with it; and, as far as we know, there isn’t any 
other man living there. But I understand that we are 


254 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


relying on Dr. Gray to establish the identity. Could I 
have a look at the inside woodwork?” 

Marion unlocked the door and we entered, followed 
by the detective, whose interest seemed to be concerned 
exclusively with the woodwork of windows; and from 
windows in general finally became concentrated on a 
small window in the lobby which commanded a view of 
the houses opposite. Having examined the sashes of 
this, with his eye cocked on one of the houses aforesaid, 
he proceeded to operate on it with his brush, which, being 
wet and dirty and used with a singular lack of care, soon 
covered the glass so completely with a mass of opaque 
smears that it was impossible to see through it at all. 
Then he cautiously raised the sash about an inch, and, 
whipping out a prism binocular from under his apron, 
stood back a couple of feet and took a leisurely survey 
through the narrow opening of one of the opposite houses. 

“Hallo!” said he. “There is a woman visible at the 
first-floor window. Just have a look at her, sir. She 
can’t see us through this narrow crack.” 

He handed me the glass, indicating the house, and I 
put the instrument to my eyes. It was a powerful glass, 
and seemed to bring the window and the figure of the 
woman within a dozen feet of me. But at the moment 
she had turned her head away, apparently to speak to 
some one inside the room, and all that I could see was 
that she seemed to be an elderly woman who wore what 
looked like an old-fashioned widow’s cap. Suddenly she 
turned and looked out over the half-curtain, giving me 
a perfectly clear view of her face, and then I felt myself 
lapsing into the old sense of confusion and bewilderment. 

I had, of course, expected to recognize Mrs. Morris. 


tHe LAST ACT 255 


But this was evidently not she, although not such a very 
different-looking woman: an elderly, white-haired widow 
in a crape cap and spectacles—reading spectacles they 
must be, since she was looking over and not through them. 
She seemed to be a stranger—and not yet quite a stranger, 
for as I looked at her some chord of memory stirred. 
But the cup of my confusion was not yet full. As I 
stared at her, trying vainly to sound a clearer note on 
that chord of memory, a man slowly emerged from the 
darkness of the room behind and stood beside her, and 
him I recognized instantly as the bottle-nosed person 
whom I had watched from my ambush at the top of 
Dartmouth-Park-Hill. 

“Well, sir,” said the detective, as the man and woman 
turned away from the window and vanished, “what do 
you make of ‘em? Do you recognize ’em?” 

“T recognize the man,” I replied, ‘‘and I believe I have 
seen the woman before, but they aren’t the people I ex- 
pected to see.” 

“Oh, dear!” said he. ‘‘That’s a bad look-out. Be- 
cause I don’t think there is anybody else there.” 

“Then,” I said, “we have made a false shot—and yet— 
well, I don’t know. I had better think this over and see 
if I can make anything of it.” 

I turned into the studio, where I found Marion—who 
had been listening attentively to this dialogue—in mark- 
edly better spirits. 

“It seems a regular muddle,” she remarked cheer- 
fully. “They have come to arrest the wrong man and 
now it appears that he isn’t there.” 

“Don’t talk to me for a few minutes, Marion, dear,” 
said I. “There is something behind this and I want to 


256 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


think what it can be. I have seen that woman some- 
where, I feel certain. Now where was it?” 

I cudgelled my brains for some time without succeed- 
ing in recovering the recollections connected with her. 
I re-visualized the face that I had seen through the glass, 
with its deep-set, hollow eyes and strong, sharply-sloping 
eyebrows, and tried to connect it with some person whom 
I had seen, but in vain. And then in a flash it came to 
me. She was the widow whom I had noticed at the in- 
quest. The identification, indeed, was not very complete, 
for the veil that she had worn on that occasion had con- 
siderably obscured her features. But I had no doubt 
that I was right, for her present appearance agreed in 
all that I could see with that of the woman at the inquest. 

The next question was, Who could she be? Her asso- 
ciation with the bottle-nosed man connected her in some 
way with what Thorndyke would have called “the case” ; 
for that man, whoever he was, had certainly been shadow- 
ing me, Then her presence at the inquest had now a 
sinister suggestiveness. She would seem to have been 
there to watch developments on behalf of others. Could 
she be a relative of Mrs. Morris? A certain faint re- 
semblance seemed to support this idea. As to the man, 
I gave him up. Evidently there were several persons 
concerned in this crime, but I knew too little about the 
circumstances to be able to make even a profitable guess. 
Having reached this unsatisfactory conclusion, I turned, 
a little irritably, to Marion, exclaiming: 

“T can make nothing of it. Let us get on with some 
work to pass the time.” 

Accordingly we began, in a half-hearted way, upon 
Polton’s two moulds. But the presence of the two de- 


fe EAL ACT 257 


tectives was disturbing, especially when, having finished 
the exterior, they brought their pails and ladders inside 
and took up their station at the lobby window. We 
struggled on for a time; but when, about noon, Miss 
Boler made her appearance with a basket of provisions 
and a couple of bottles of wine, we abandoned the attempt, 
and occupied ourselves in tidying up and laying a table. 

“Don’t you think, Marion,’ I said, as we sat down to 
lunch (having provided for the needs of the two 
“painters,” who lunched in the lobby), “that it would 
be best for you and Arabella to go home before any fuss 
begins?” 

“Whatever Miss Marion thinks,’ Arabella interposed 
firmly, “I am not going home. I came down expressly 
to see this villain captured, and here I stay until he is 
safely in custody.” 

“And J,” said Marion, “am going to stay with Ara- 
bella. You know why, Stephen. I couldn’t bear to go 
away and leave you here after what you have told me. 
We shall be quite safe in here.” 

“Well,” I temporized, seeing plainly that they had 
made up their minds, “you must keep the door bolted 
until the business is over.” 

“As to that,’ said Miss Boler, “we shall be guided 
by circumstances;” and from this ambiguous position 
neither she nor Marion would budge. 

Shortly after lunch I received a further shock of sur- 
prise. In answer to a loud single knock, I hurried out 
to open the door. A tradesman’s van had drawn up at 
the kerb, and two men stood on the threshold, one of 
them holding a good-sized parcel. I stared at the latter 
in astonishment, for I recognized him instantly as the 


258 THE D’ARBLAY ‘MyST ere 


second shadower of the Dartmouth Park Hill adventure; 
but before I could make any comment both men entered 
—with the curt explanation “police business’—and the 
last-comer shut the door, when I heard the van drive 
off. 

“T am Detective-sergeant Porter,” the stranger ex- 
plained. “You know what I am here for, of course.” 

“Yes,” I replied, and, turning to the other man, I 
said: “I think I have seen you before. Are you a police- 
officer, too?” 

My acquaintance grinned. “Retired Detective-ser- 
geant,” he explained, ‘name of Barber. At present em- 
ployed by Dr. Thorndyke. I think I have seen you before, 
Sir,’ and he grinned again, somewhat more broadly. 

“T should like to know how you were employed when 
I saw you last,” said I. But here Sergeant Porter inter- 
posed: “Better leave explanations till later, Sir. You've 
got a back gate, I think.” 

“Yes,” said one of the “painters.” ‘At the bottom of 
the garden. It opens on an alley that leads into the next 
road—Chilton-road.” 

“Can we get into the garden through the studio?” the 
Sergeant asked; and on my answering in the affirmative, 
he requested permission to inspect the rear premises. J] 
conducted both men to the back door and let them out 
into the garden, where they passed out at the back gate 
to reconnoitre the alley. In a minute or two they re- 
turned; and they had hardly re-entered the studio when 
another knock at the door announced more visitors. 
They turned out to be Thorndyke and Superintendent 
Miller: of whom the latter inquired of the senior painter: 

“Ts everything in going order, Jenks?” 


Pei EASE ACT 259 


“Yes, Sir,’ was the reply. “The man is there all 
right. Dr. Gray saw him; but I should mention, Sir, 
that he doesn’t think it’s the right man.” 

“The devil he doesn’t!” exclaimed Miller, looking at 
me uneasily, and then glancing at Thorndyke. 

“That man isn’t Morris,’ said I. ‘‘He is that red- 
nosed man whom I told you about. You remember.” 

“T remember,” Thorndyke replied calmly. “Well, I 
suppose we shall have to content ourselves with the red- 
nosed man;” upon which ex-Sergeant Barber’s counte- 
nance became wreathed in smiles and the Superintendent 
looked relieved. 

“Are all the arrangements complete, Sergeant?” Miller 
inquired, turning to Sergeant Porter. 

“Yes, sir,” the latter replied. “Inspector Follett has 
got some local men, who know the neighbourhood well, 
posted in the rear watching the back garden, and there 
are some uniformed men waiting round both the corners 
to stop him, in case he slips past us. Everything is ready, 
six,” 

“Then,” said the Superintendent, “‘we may as well open 
the ball at once. I hope it will go off quietly. It ought 
to. We have got enough men on the job.” 

He nodded to Sergeant Porter, who at once picked up 
his parcel and went out into the garden, accompanied 
by Barber. Miller, Thorndyke, and I now adjourned to 
the lobby window, where, with the two painter-detectives, 
we established a look-out. Presently we saw the Sergeant 
and Barber advancing separately on the opposite side of 
the road, the latter leading and carrying the parcel. Ar- 
rived at the house, he entered the front garden and 
knocked a loud single knock. Immediately the mysterious 


260 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


woman appeared at the ground-floor window—it was a 
bay-window—and took a long, inquisitive look at ex- 
Sergeant Barber. There ensued a longish pause, during 
which Sergeant Porter walked slowly past the house. 
Then the door opened a very short distance—being evi- 
dently chained—and the woman appeared in the narrow 
opening. Barber offered the parcel, which was much too 
large to go through the opening without unchaining the 
door, and appeared to be giving explanations, But the 
woman evidently denied all knowledge of it, and, having 
refused to receive it, tried to shut the door, into the 
opening of which Barber had inserted his foot; but he 
withdrew it somewhat hastily as a coal-hammer de- 
scended, and before he could recover himself the door 
shut with a bang and was immediately bolted. 

The ball was opened, as Miller had expressed it, and 
the developments followed with a bewildering rapidity 
that far outpaced any possible description. 

The Sergeant returning, and joining Barber, the two 
men were about to force the ground-floor window, when 
pistol shots and police whistles from the rear announced ~ 
a new field of operations. At once, Miller opened the 
studio door and sallied forth, with the two detectives 
and Thorndyke; and when I had called out to Marion to 
bolt the door, I followed, shutting it after me. Mean- 
while, from the rear of the opposite houses came a con- 
fused noise of police-whistles, barking dogs and women’s 
voices, with an occasional report. Following three rapid 
pistol-shots there came a brief interval; then, suddenly, 
the door of a house farther down the street burst open 
and the fugitive rushed out, wild-eyed and terrified, his 
white face contrasting most singularly with his vividly- 


Pie asl ACT 261 


red nose. Instantly, the two detectives and Miller started 
in pursuit, followed by the Sergeant and Barber; but 
the man ran like a hare and was speedily drawing ahead 
when suddenly a party of constables appeared from a 
side turning and blocked the road. The fugitive zig- 
zagged and made as if he would try to dodge between 
them, flinging away his empty pistol and drawing out 
another. The detectives and Miller were close on him, 
when in an instant he turned, and with extraordinary 
agility, avoided them. Then, as the two Sergeants bore 
down on him, he fired at them at close range, stopping 
them both, though neither actually fell. Again he out- 
ran his pursuers, racing down the road towards us, yell- 
ing like a maniac and firing his pistol wildly at Thorn- 
dyke and me. And suddenly my left leg doubled up and. 
I fell heavily to the ground nearly opposite the studio 
door. 

The fall confused me for a moment and as I lay, half- 
dazed, I was horrified to see Marion dart out of the 
studio. In an instant she was kneeling by my side with 
her arm around my neck. “Stephen! Oh, Stephen, dar- 
ling!” she sobbed, and gazed into my face with eyes full 
of terror and affection, oblivious of everything but my 
peril. I besought her to go back, and struggled to get 
out my pistol, for the man, still gaining on his pursuers, 
was now rapidly approaching. He had flung away his 
second pistol and had drawn a large knife; and as he 
bore down on us, mad with rage and terror, he gibbered 
and grinned like a wild cat. 

When he was but a couple of dozen paces away, I saw 
Thorndyke raise his pistol and take a careful aim. But 
before he had time to fire, a most singular diversion oc- 


262 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


curred. From the open door of the studio, Miss Boler 
emerged, swinging a massive stool with amazing ease. 
The man, whose eyes were fixed on me and Marion, did 
not observe her until she was within a few paces of him; 
when, gathering all her strength, she hurled the heavy 
stool with almost incredible force. It struck him below 
the knees, knocking his feet from under him, and he fell 
with a sort of dive or half-somersault, falling with the 
hand that grasped the knife under him. 

He made no attempt to rise, but lay with slightly twitch- 
ing limbs but otherwise motionless. Miss Boler stalked 
up to him and stood looking down on him with grim 
interest until Thorndyke, still holding his pistol, stooped, 
and, grasping one arm, gently turned him over. Then 
we could see the handle of the knife sticking out from 
his chest near the right shoulder. ; 

“Ha!” said Thorndyke. “Bad luck to the last. It 
must have gone through the arch of the aorta. But 
perhaps it is just as well.” 

He rose, and stepping across to where I sat, supported 
by Marion and still nursing my pistol, bent over me with 
an anxious face. 

“What is it, Gray?” he asked. “Not a fracture, I 
hope ?”’ 

“T don’t think so,” I replied. “Damaged muscle and 
perhaps nerve. It is all numb at present, but it doesn’t 
seem to be bleeding much. I think I could hobble if you 
would help me up.” 

He shook his head and beckoned to a couple of con- 
stables, with whose aid he carried me into the studio and 
deposited me on the sofa. Immediately afterwards the 
two wounded officers were brought in, and I was re- 


THE LAST ACT 263 


lieved to hear that neither of them was dangerously hurt, 
though the Sergeant had a fractured arm and Barber a 
flesh wound of the chest and a cracked rib. The ladies 
having been politely ejected into the garden, Thorndyke 
examined the various injuries and applied temporary 
dressings, producing the materials from a very business- 
like-looking bag which he had providently brought with 
him. While he was thus engaged three constables entered 
carrying the corpse, which, with a few words of apology, 
they deposited on the floor by the side of the sofa. 

I looked down at the ill-omened figure with lively cu- 
riosity, and especially was I impressed and puzzled by 
the very singular appearance of the face. Its general 
colour was of that waxen pallor characteristic of the 
faces of the dead, particularly of those who have died 
from hemorrhage. But the nose and the acne patches 
remained unchanged. Indeed, their colour seemed in- 
tensified, for their vivid red “stared” from the surround- 
ing white like the painted patches on a clown’s face. 

The mystery was solved when, the surgical business 
being concluded, Barber came and seated himself on the 
edge of the sofa. 

“Masterly make-up, that,’ said he, nodding at the 
corpse. “Looks queer enough now, but when he was 
alive you couldn’t spot it even in daylight.” 

“Make-up!” I exclaimed. “I didn’t know you could 
make-up off the stage.” 

“You can’t wear a celluloid nose off the stage, or a 
tie-on beard,” he replied. ““But when it is done as well 
as this—a touch or two of nose-paste or toupée-paste, 
tinted carefully with grease-paint and finished up with 


264 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


powder—it’s hard to spot. These experts in make-up are 
a holy terror to the police.” 

“Did you know that he was made-up?” I asked, look- 
ing at Thorndyke. 

“T inferred that he was,’ the latter replied, “and so 
did Sergeant Barber. But now we had better see what 
his natural appearance is.” 

He stooped over the corpse, and with a small ivory 
paper-knife scraped from the end of the nose and the 
parts adjacent a layer of coloured plastic material about 
the consistency of modelling-wax. Then with vaseline 
and cotton-wool he cleaned away the red pigment ge 
the pallid skin showed unsullied. 

“Why, it 1s Morris after all!’ I exclaimed. “Tt is 
perfectly incredible; and you seemed to remove such 
a very small quantity of paste, too! I wouldn’t have be- 
lieved that it would make such a change.” 

“Not after that very instructive demonstration that 
Miss D’Arblay gave us with the clay and the plaster 
mask?” he asked with a smile. 

I smiled sheepishly in return. “I told you I was a 
fool, Sir;” and then, as a new idea burst upon me, I 
asked: “And that other man—the hook-nosed man?” 

“Morris—that is to say, Bendelow,” he replied, “with 
a different, more exaggerated, make-up.” 

I was pondering with profound relief on this answer 
when one of the painter-detectives entered in search of 
the Superintendent. 

“We got into the house from the back, Sir,” he re- 
ported. “The woman is dead. We found her lying on 
the bed in the first-floor front; and we found a tumbler 
half-full of water and this by the bedside.” 


THE LAST ACT 265 


He exhibited a small, wide-mouthed bottle labelled 
“Potassium Cyanide,’ which the Superintendent took 
from him. 

“T will come and look over the house presently,” the 
latter said. “Don’t let anybody in, and let me know when 
the cabs are here.” 

“There are two here now, sir,”’ the detective announced, 
“and they have sent down three wheeled stretchers.” 

“One cab will carry our two casualties, and I expect the 
doctor will want the other. The bodies can be put on 
two of the stretchers, but you had better send the woman 
here for Dr. Gray to see.” 

The detective saluted and retired, and in a few min- 
utes a stretcher dismounted from its carriage was borne 
in by two constables and placed on the floor beside 
Morris’ corpse. But even now, prepared as I was, and 
knowing who the new arrival must be, I looked doubt- 
fully at the pitiful effigy that lay before me so limp and 
passive that but an hour since had been a strong, courage- 
ous, resourceful woman. Not until the white wig, the 
cap, and the spectacles had been removed, the heavy eye- 
brows detached with spirit, and the dark pigment cleaned 
away from the eyelids, could I say with certainty that this 
was the corpse of Mrs. Morris. 

“Well, Doctor,” said the Superintendent, when the 
wounded and the dead had been borne away and we were 
alone in the studio, ‘you have done your part to a finish, 
as usual, but ours is a bit of a failure. I should have 
liked to bring that fellow to trial.” 

“T sympathize with you,” replied Thorndyke. “The 
gallows ought to have had him. But yet I am not sure 
that what has happened is not all for the best. The 


266 THE D’ARBUAY Riya 


evidence in both cases—the D’Arblay and the Van Zellen 
murders—is entirely circumstantial and extremely in- 
tricate. That is not good evidence for a jury. A con- 
viction would not have been a certainty either here or 
in America, and an acquittal would have been a disaster 
that I don’t dare to think of. No, Miller, I think that, 
on the whole, I am satisfied, and I think that you ought 
to be, too.” 

“T suppose I ought,” Miller conceded, “but it would 
have been a triumph to put him in the dock, after he 
had been written off as dead and cremated. However, 
we must take things as we find them; and now I had 
better go and look over that house.” 3 

With a friendly nod to me, he took himself off, and 
Thorndyke went off to notify the ladies that the intruders 
had departed. 

As he returned with them I heard Marion cross-ex- 
amining him with regard to my injuries and listened 
anxiously for his report. 

“So far as I can see, Miss D’Arblay,” he answered, 
“the damage is confined to one or two muscles. If so, 
there will be no permanent disablement and he should 
soon be quite well again. But he will want proper surgical 
treatment without delay. I propose to take him straight 
to our hospital if he agrees.” 

“Miss Boler and I were hoping,” said Marion, “that 
we might have the privilege of nursing him at our house.” 

“That is very good of you,” said Thorndyke, “and 
perhaps you might look after him during his convales- 
cence. But for the present he needs skilled surgical treat- 
ment. If it should not be necessary for him to stay in 
the hospital after the wound has been attended to, it 


THE LAST ACT 267 


would be best for him to occupy one of the spare bed- 
rooms at my chambers, where he can be seen daily by 
the surgeon, and I can keep an eye on him. Come,” 
he added coaxingly, “let us make a compromise. You 
or Miss Boler shall come to the Temple every day for 
as long as you please and do what nursing is necessary. 
There is a spare room, of which you can take possession ; 
and as to your work here, Polton will give you any help 
that he can. How will that do?’ 

Marion accepted the offer gratefully (with my con- 
currence), but begged to be allowed to accompany me 
to the hospital. 

“That was what I was going to suggest,” said Thorn- 
dyke. “The cab will hold the four of us, and the sooner 
we start the better.” 

Our preparations were very soon made. Then the 
door was opened, I was assisted out through a lane of 
hungry-eyed spectators, held at bay by two constables, 
and deposited in the cab; and when the studio had been 
locked up, we drove off, leaving the neighbourhood to 
settle down to its normal condition. 


CHAPTER XIX 


THORNDYKE DISENTANGLES THE 
THREADS 


Tue days of my captivity at No. 5a, King’s Bench- 
walk passed with a tranquillity that made me realize the 
weight of the incubus that had been lifted. Now, in the 
mornings, when Polton ministered to me—until Ara- 
bella arrived and was ungrudgingly installed in office— 
I could let my untroubled thoughts stray to Marion, work- 
ing alone in the studio with restored security, free for 
ever from the hideous menace which had hung over her. 
And later, when she, herself, released by her faithful 
apprentice, came to take her spell of nursing, what a joy 
it was to see her looking so fresh and rosy, so youthful 
and buoyant! 

Of Thorndyke—the giver of these gifts—I saw little 
in the first few days, for he had heavy arrears of work to 
make up. However, he paid me brief visits from time 
to time, especially in the mornings and at night, when I 
was alone, and very delightful those visits were. For he 
had now dropped the investigator, and there had come 
into his manner something new—something fatherly or 
elder-brotherly; and he managed to convey to me that 
my presence in his chambers was a source of pleasure to 
him: a refinement of hospitality that filled up the cup of 
my gratitude to him. 


It was on the fifth day, when I was allowed to sit up 
ee : 


THORNDYKE DISENTANGLES THREADS 269 


in bed—for my injury was no more than a perforating 
wound of the outer side of the calf, which had missed 
every important structure—that I sat watching Marion 
making somewhat premature preparations for tea, and 
observed with interest that a third cup had been placed on 
the tray. 7 

“Yes,” Marion replied to my inquiry, “ “the Doctor’ 
is coming to tea with us to-day. Mr. Polton gave me 
the message when he arrived.” She gave a few further 
touches to the tea-set, and continued: “How sweet Dr. 
Thorndyke has been to us, Stephen! He treats me as if 
I were his daughter, and, however busy he is, he always 
walks with me to the Temple gate and puts me into a 
cab. I am infinitely grateful to him—almost as grateful 
as I am to you.” 

“TI don’t see what you have got to be grateful to me 
for,” I remarked. 

“Don’t you?” said she. “Is it nothing to me, do you 
suppose, that in the moment of my terrible grief and 
desolation, I found a noble, chivalrous friend whom I 
trusted instantly? That I have been guarded through all 
the dangers that threatened me, and that at last I have 
been rescued from them and set free to go my ways in 
peace and security? Surely, Stephen, dear, all this is 
abundant matter for gratitude. And I owe it all to you.” 

“To me!” I exclaimed in astonishment, recalling se- 
cretly what a consummate donkey I had been. “But 
there, I suppose it is the way of a woman to imagine 
that her particular gander is a swan.” 

She smiled a superior smile. “Women,” said she, 
“are very intelligent creatures. They are able to dis- 
tinguish between swans and ganders, whereas the swans 


270 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


themselves are apt to be muddle-headed and self-deprecia- 
tory.” 

“T agree to the muddle-headed factor,” I rejoined, “and 
I won’t be unduly ostentatious as to the ganderism. But 
to return to Thorndyke, it is extraordinarily good of him 
to allow himself to be burdened with me.” 

“With us,” she corrected. 

“Tt is the same thing, sweetheart. Do you know if 
he is going to give us a long visit?” 

“T hope so,” she replied. “Mr. Polton said that he had 
got through his arrears of work and had this afternoon 
free.”’ 

“Then,” said I, “perhaps he will give us the elucidation 
that he promised me some time ago. I am devoured by 
curiosity as to how he unravelled the web of mystification 
that the villain, Bendelow, spun round himself.” 

“So am I,” said she; “and I believe I can hear his 
footsteps on the stair.”’ 

A few moments later Thorndyke entered the room, 
and having greeted us with quiet geniality, seated himself 
in the easy chair by the table and regarded us with a 
benevolent smile. 

“We were just saying, Sir,” said I, “how very kind 
it is of you to allow your chambers to be invaded by a 
stray cripple and his—his belongings.” 

“T believe you were going to say ‘baggage,’ ”” Marion 
murmured. 

“Well,” said Thorndyke, smiling at the interpolation, 
“TI may tell you both in confidence that you were talking 
nonsense. It is I who am the beneficiary.” 

“Tt is a part of your goodness to say so, Sir,” I said. 

“But,” he rejoined, “it is the simple truth. You en- 


, 





THORNDYKE DISENTANGLES THREADS 71 


able me to combine the undoubted economic advantages 
of bachelordom with the satisfaction of having a family 
under my roof; and you even allow me to participate in 
a way, as a sort of supercargo, in a certain voyage of 
discovery which is to be undertaken by two young ad- 
venturers, in the near future—in the very near future, 
as I hope.” 

“As I hope, too,” said I, glancing at Marion, who had 
become a little more rosy than usual and who now adroitly 
diverted the current of the conversation. 

“We were also wondering,” said she, “if we might 
hope for some enlightenment on things which have 
puzzled us so much lately.” 

“That,” he replied, “was in my mind when I arranged 
to keep this afternoon and evening free. I wanted to give 
Stephen—who is my professional offspring, so to speak 
—a full exposition of this very intricate and remarkable 
case. Ji you, my dear, will keep my cup charged as 
occasion arises, I will begin forthwith. I will address 
myself to Stephen, who has all the facts first-hand; and 
if, in my exposition, I should seem somewhat callously 
to ignore the human aspects of this tragic story—aspects 
which have meant so much in irreparable loss and be- 
reavement to you, poor child—remember that it is an 
exposition of evidence, and necessarily passionless and 
impersonal.” 

“I quite realize that,” said Marion, ‘and you may 
trust me to understand.” 

He bowed gravely, and, after a brief pause, began: 

“I propose to treat the subject historically, so to speak; 
to take you over the ground that I traversed myself, re- 
counting my observations and inferences in the order in 


272 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


which they occurred. The inquiry falls naturally into 
certain successive stages, corresponding to the emergence 
of new facts, of which the first was concerned with the 
data elicited at the inquest. Let us begin with them. 

“First, as to the crime itself. It was a murder of a 
very distinctive type. There was evidence, not only of 
premeditation in the bare legal sense, but of careful prep- 
aration and planning. It was a considered act, and not 
a crime of impulse or passion. What could be the motive 
for such a crime? There appeared to be only two alter- 
native possibilities; either it was a crime of revenge or a 
crime of expediency. The hypothesis of revenge could 
not be explored, because there were no data excepting 
the evidence of the victim’s daughter, which was to the 
effect that deceased had no enemies, actual or potential ; 
and this evidence was supported by the very deliberate 
character of the crime. 

“We were therefore thrown back on ihe hypothesis of 
expediency, which was, in fact, the more probable one, 
and which became still more probable as the circumstances 
were further examined. But having assumed, as a work- 
ing hypothesis, that this crime had been committed in 
pursuit of a definite purpose which was not revenge, 
the next question was: What could that purpose have 
been? And that question could be answered only by a 
careful consideration of all that was known of the parties 
to the crime: the criminal and the victim and their possible 
relations to one another. 

“As to the former, the circumstances indicated that 
he was a person of some education, that he had an un- 
usual acquaintance with poisons, and such social position” 
and personal qualities as would enable him to get posses- 


THORNDYKE DISENTANGLES THREADS 273 


sion of them; that he was subtle, ingenious, and resource- 
ful, but not far-sighted, since he took risks that could 
have been avoided. His mentality appeared to be that of 
the gambler, whose attention tends to be riveted on the 
winning chances, and who makes insufficient provision 
for possible failure. He staked everything on the chance 
of the needle-puncture being overlooked and the presence 
of the poison being undiscovered. 

“But the outstanding and most significant quality was 
his profound criminality. Premeditated murder is the 
most atrocious of crimes, and murder for expediency is 
the most atrocious form of murder. This man, then, 
was of a profoundly criminal type, and was most prob- 
ably a practicing criminal. 

“Turning now to the victim, the evidence showed that 
he was a man of high moral qualities: honest, industrious, 
thrifty, kindly and amiable, and of good reputation—the 
exact reverse of the other. Any illicit association be- 
tween these two men was, therefore, excluded, and yet 
there must have been an association of some kind. Of 
what kind could it have been? 

“Now, in the case of this man, as in that of the 
other, there was one outstanding fact. He was a sculptor. 
And not only a sculptor, but an artist in the highest class 
of wax-work. And not only this. He was probably the 
only artist of this kind practicing in this country. For 
wax-work is almost exclusively a French art. So far as 
I know, all the wax figures and high-class lay figures 
that are made are produced in France. This man, there- 
fore, appeared to be the unique English practitioner of 
* this very curious art. 

“The fact impressed me profoundly. To realize its 


274 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


significance we must realize the unique character of the 
art. Wax-work is a fine art; but it differs from all 
other fine arts in that its main purpose is one that is 
expressly rejected by all those other arts. An ordinary 
work of sculpture, no matter how realistic, is frankly an 
object of metal, stone, or pottery. Its realism is re- 
stricted to truth of form. No deception is aimed at but, 
on the contrary, is expressly avoided. But the aim of 
wax-work is complete deception; and its perfection is 
measured by the completeness of the deception achieved. 
How complete that may be can be judged by incidents 
that have occurred at Madame Tussaud’s. When that 
exhibition was at the old Baker-street Bazaar, the snuff- 
taker—whose arms, head, and eyes were moved by clock- 
work—used to be seated on an open bench; and it is 
recorded that, quite frequently, visitors would sit down 
by him on the bench and try to open conversation with 
him. So, too, the wax-work policeman near the outer 
door was occasionally accosted with questions by arriving 
visitors. 

“Bearing this fact in mind, it is obvious that this art 
is peculiarly adapted to employment in certain kinds of 
fraud, such as personation, false alibi, and the like; and 
it is probable that the only reason why it is not so em- 
ployed is the great difficulty of obtaining first-class wax- 
works. 

“Naturally, then, when I observed this connexion of a 
criminal with a wax-work artist, I asked myself whether 
the motive of the murder was not to be sought in that 
artist’s unique powers. Could it be that an attempt had 
been made to employ the deceased on some work designed 
for a fraudulent purpose? If such an attempt had been 


THORNDYKE DISENTANGLES THREADS 275 


made, whether it had or had not been successful, the 
deceased would be in possession of knowledge which 
would be highly dangerous to the criminal; but especially 
if a work had actually been executed and used as an 
instrument of fraud. : 

“But there were other possibilities in the case of a 
sculptor who was also a medallist. He might have been 
employed to produce—quite innocently—copies of val- 
uable works which were intended for fraudulent use; and 
the second stage of the investigation was concerned with 
these possibilities. ‘That stage was ushered in by Follett’s 
discovery of the guinea; the additional facts that we ob- 
tained at the Museum, and later, when we learned that 
the guinea that had been found was an electrotype copy, 
and that deceased was an expert electrotyper, all seemed 
to point to the production of forgeries as the crime in 
which Julius D’Arblay had been implicated. That was 
the view to which we seemed to be committed; but it did 
not seem to me satisfactory, for several reasons. First, 
the motive was insufficient—there was really nothing to 
conceal. When the forgeries were offered for sale, it 
would be obvious that some one had made them, and that 
some one could be traced by the purchaser through the 
vendor. The killing of the actual maker would give no 
security to the man who sold the forgeries, and who would 
have to appear in the transaction. And then, although 
deceased was unique as a wax-worker, he was not as a 
copyist or electrotyper. For those purposes, much more 
suitable accomplices might have been found. The execu- 
tion of copies by deceased appeared to be a fact; but my 
own feeling was that they had been a mere by-product 
that they had been used as a means of introduction to 


276 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


deceased for some other purpose connected with wax- 
work, 

“At the end of this stage we had made some progress. 
We had identified this unknown man with another un- 
known man, who was undoubtedly a professional crim- 
inal. We had found, in the forged guinea, a possible 
motive for the murder. But, as I have said, that ex- 
planation did not satisfy me, and I still kept a look-out 
for new evidence connected with the wax-works, 

“The next stage opened on that night when you arrived 
at Cornishes’, looking like a resuscitated ‘found drowned.’ 
Your account of your fall into the canal and the imme- 
diately antecedent events. made a deep impression on me, 
though I did not, at the time, connect them with the 
crime that we were investigating. But the whole affair 
was so abnormal that it seemed to call for very careful 
consideration; and the more I considered it the more 
abnormal did it appear. 

“The theory of an accident could not be entertained, 
nor could the dropping of that derrick have been a prac- 
tical joke. Your objection that no one was in sight had 
no weight, since there was a gate in the wall by which 
a person could have made his escape. Some one had 
attempted to murder you: and that attempt had been 
made immediately after you had signed a cremation cer- 
tificate. That was a very impressive fact. As you 
know, it is my habit to look very narrowly at cremation 
cases, for the reason that cremation offers great facilities 
for certain kinds of crime. Poisoners—and particularly 
arsenic and antimony poisoners—have repeatedly been 
convicted on evidence furnished by an exhumed body. 
If such poisoners can get the corpse of the victim cre- 


THORNDYKE DISENTANGLES THREADS 277 


mated, they are virtually safe; for whatever suspicions 
may thereafter arise, no conviction is possible, since the 
means of proving the administration have been destroyed. 

“Accordingly, I considered very carefully your account 
of the proceedings, and as I did so strong suggestions of 
fraud arose in all directions. There was, for instance, 
the inspection window in the coffin. What was its ob- 
ject? Inspection windows are usually provided only in 
cases where the condition of the body is such that it 
has to be enclosed in a hermetically sealed coffin. But 
no such condition existed in this case. There was no 
reason why the friends should not have viewed the body 
in the usual manner in an open coffin. Again, there was 
the curious alternation of you and the two witnesses. 
First they went up and viewed deceased—through the 
window. Then, after a considerable interval, you and 
Cropper went up and viewed deceased through the win- 
dow. Then you took out the body, examined it, and 
put it back. Again, after a considerable interval, the 
witnesses went up a second time and viewed the de- 
ceased—through the window. 

“Tt was all rather queer and suspicious, especially when 
considered in conjunction with the attempt on your life. 
Reflecting on the latter, the question of the gate in the 
wall by the canal arose in my mind, and I examined the 
map to see if I could locate it. It was not marked, but 
the wharf was, and from this and your description it 
appeared certain that the gate must be in the wall of the 
garden of Morris’ house. Here was another suspicious 
fact. For Morris—who could have let you out by this 
side gate—sent you by a long, round-about route to the 
tow-path. He knew which way you must be going— 


278 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


westward—and could have slipped out of the gate and 
waited for you in the hut by the wharf. It was possible, 
and there seemed to be no other explanation of what had 
happened to you. Incidentally, I made another discovery. 
This map showed that Morris’ house had two frontages, 
one on Field-street and one on Market-street, and that 
you appeared to have been admitted by the back entrance. 
Which was another slightly abnormal circumstance. 

“T was very much puzzled by the affair. There was a 
distinct suggestion that some fraud—some deception— 
had been practiced; that what the spinsters saw through 
the coffin window was not the same thing as that which 
you saw. And yet, what could the deception have been? 
There was no question about the body. It was a real 
body. The disease was undoubtedly genuine, and was, 
at least, the effective cause of death. And the crema- 
tion was necessarily genuine; for though you can bury 
an empty coffin, you can’t cremate one. ‘The absence of 
calcined bone would expose the fraud instantly. — 

“T considered the possibility of a second body; that of 
a murdered person, for instance. But that would not do. 
For if a substitution had been effected, there would still 
have been a redundant body to dispose of and account 
for. Nothing would have been gained by the substi- 
tution. , 

“But there was another possibility to which no such 
objection applied. Assuming a fraud to have been per- 
petrated, here was a case adapted in the most perfect 
manner to the use of a wax-work. Of course, a full- 
length figure would have been impossible, because it 
would have left no calcined bones. But the inspection 
window would have made it unnecessary. A wax head 


THORNDYKE DISENTANGLES THREADS 279 


would have done; or, better still, a wax mask, which 
could have been simply placed over the face of the real 
corpse. The more I thought about it the more was I 
impressed by the singular suitability of the arrangements 
to the use of a wax mask. The inspection window seemed 
to be designed for the very purpose—to restrict the view 
to a mere face and to prevent the mask from being 
touched and the fraud thus discovered—and the alternate 
inspections by you and the spinsters were quite in keep- 
ing with a deception of that kind. 

“There was another very queer feature in the case. 
These people, living at Hoxton, elected to employ a doc- 
tor who lived miles away at Bloomsbury. Why did they 
not call in a neighbouring practitioner? Also, they ar- 
ranged the days and even the hours at which the visits 
were to be made. Why? There was an evident sugges- 
tion of something that the doctor was not to know—some- 
thing or somebody that he was not desired to see; that 
some preparations had to be made for his visits. 

“Again, the note was addressed to Dr. Stephen Gray, 
not to Dr. Cornish. They knew your name and address, 
although you had only just come there, and they did not 
know Dr. Cornish, who was an old resident. How was 
this? The only explanation seemed to be that they had 
read the report of the inquest, or even been present at 
it. You there stated publicly that your temporary ad- 
dress was at 61, Mecklenburgh-square; that you were, 
in fact, a bird of passage; and you gave your full name 
and your age. Now if any fraud was being carried out, 
a bird of passage, who might be difficult to find later, and 
a young one at that, was just the most suitable kind of 
doctor. 


280 THE D’ARBLAY Mystere 


“To sum up the evidence at this stage: The circum- 
stances, taken as a whole, suggested in the strongest pos- 
sible manner that there was something fraudulent about 
this cremation. That fraud must be some kind of sub- 
stitution or personation with the purpose of obtaining a 
certificate that some person had been cremated who had, 
in fact, not been cremated. In that case it was nearly 
certain that the dead man was not Simon Bendelow; for 
the certificates would be required to agree with the false 
appearances, not with the true. There was a suggestion— 
but only a speculative one—that the deception might have 
been effected by means of a wax mask. 

“There were, however, two objections. As to the wax 
mask, there was the great difficulty of obtaining one. A 
perfect portrait mask could have been obtained only either 
from an artist in Paris or from Julius D’Arblay. The 
objection to the substitution theory was that there was a 
real body—the body of a real person. If the cremation 
was in a name which was not the name of that person, 
then the disappearance of that person would remain un- 
accounted for. 

“So you see that the whole theory of the fraud was 
purely conjectural. There was not a single particle of 
direct evidence. You also see that at two points there 
was a faint hint of a connexion between this case and 
the murder of Mr. D’Arblay. These people seemed to 
have read of, or attended at the inquest; and if a wax 
mask existed, it was quite probably made by him. 

“The next stage opens with the discovery of the mask 
at the studio. But there are certain antecedent matters 
that must first be glanced at. When the attempt was 
made to murder Marion, I asked myself four questions: 


THORNDYKE DISENTANGLES THREADS 281 


‘1. Why did this man want to kill Marion? 2. What did 
he come to the studio on the preceding night to search 
for? 3. Did he find it, whatever it was? 4. Why did he 
delay so long to make the search?’ 

“Let us begin with the second question. What had 
he come to look for? ‘The obvious suggestion was that 
he had come to get possession of some incriminating ob- 
ject. But what was that object? Could it be the mould 
of some forged coin or medal? I did not believe that 
it was. For since the forgery or forgeries were extant, 
the moulds had no particular significance; and what little 
significance they had applied to Mr. D’Arblay, who was, 
technically, the forger. My feeling was that the object 
was in some way connected with wax-work, and in all 
probability with a wax portrait mask, as the most likely 
thing to be used for a fraudulent purpose. And I need 
hardly say that the cremation case lurked in the back of 
my mind. 

“This view was supported by consideration of the 
third question. Did he find what he came to seek? If 
he came for moulds of coins or medals, he must have 
found them; for none remained. But the fact that he 
came the next night and attempted to murder Marion— 
believing her to be alone—suggested that his search had 
failed. And consideration of the fourth question led— 
less decisively—to the same conclusion as to the nature 
of the object sought. 

“Why had he waited all this time to make the search? 
Why had he not entered the studio immediately after the 
murder, when the place was mostly unoccupied? The | 
most probable explanation appeared to me to be that he 
had only recently become aware that there was any in- 


282 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


criminating object in existence. Proceeding on the hy- 
pothesis that he had commissioned Mr. D’Arblay to make 
a wax portrait mask, I further assumed that he knew 
little of the process, and—perhaps misunderstanding Mr. 
D’ Arblay—confused the technique of wax with that of 
plaster. In making a plaster mask from life—as you 
probably know by this time—you have to destroy the 
mould to get the mask out. So when the mask has been 
delivered to the client, there is nothing left. 

“But to make a wax mask, you must first make one 
of plaster to serve as a matrix from which to make the 
gelatine mould for the wax. Then, when the wax mask 
has been delivered to the client, the plaster matrix re- 
mains in the possession of the artist. 

“The suggestion, then, was that this man had supposed 
that the mould had been destroyed in making the mask, 
and that only some time after the murder had he, in some 
way, discovered his mistake. When he did discover it, 
he would see what an appalling blunder he had made; 
for the plaster matrix was the likeness of hi§ own face. 

“You see that all this was highly speculative. It was 
all hypothetical, and it might all have been totally falla- 
cious. We still had not a single solid fact; but all the 
hypothetical matter was consistent, and each inference 
seemed to support the others.” 

“And what,” I asked, “did you suppose was his motive 
for trying to make away ‘with Marion?” 

“In the “first place,” he replied, “I inferred that he 
looked on her as a dangerous person who might have some 
knowledge of his transactions with her father. This was 
probably the explanation of his attempt when he cut 
the brake-wire of her bicycle. But the second, more 


THORNDYKE DISENTANGLES THREADS 283 


desperate attack, was made, I assume, when he had re- 
alized the existence of the plaster mask, and supposed that 
she knew of it, too. If he had killed her, he would prob- 
ably have made another search with the studio fully 
lighted up. 

“To return to our inquiry. You see that I had a mass 
of hypothesis but not a single real fact. But I still had 
a firm belief that a wax mask had been made and that— 
if it had not been destroyed—there must be a plaster 
mask somewhere in the studio. That was what I came 
to look for that morning; and as it happens that I am 
some six inches taller than Bendelow was, I was able 
to see what had been invisible to him. When I dis- 
covered that mask, and when Marion had disclaimed all 
knowledge of it, my hopes began to rise. But when you 
identified the face as that of Morris, I felt that our prob- 
lem was solved. In an instant, my card-house of specu- 
lative hypothesis was changed into a solid edifice. What 
had been but bare possibilities had now become so highly 
probable that they were almost certainties. 

“Let us consider what the finding of this mask proved 
—subject, of course, to verification. It proved that a 
wax mask of Morris had been made—for here was the 
matrix, varnished, as you will remember, in readiness 
for the gelatine mould; and that mask was obviously ob- 
tained for the purpose of a fraudulent cremation. And 
that mask was made by Julius “D’ Arblay. 

“What was the purpose of the fraud? It was perfectly 
obvious. Morris was clearly the real Simon Bendelow, 
and the purpose of the fraud was to create undeniable 
evidence that he was dead. But why did he want to 
prove that he was dead? Well, we knew that he was 


284, THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


the murderer of Van Zellen, for whom the American 
police were searching, and he might be in more danger 
than we knew. At any rate, a death certificate would 
make him absolutely secure—on one condition—that the 
body was cremated. Mere burial would not be enough; 
for an exhumation would discover the fraud. But per- 
fect security could be secured only by destruction of all 
evidence of the fraud. Julius D’Arblay held such evi- 
dence. Therefore Julius D’Arblay must be got rid of. 
Here, then, was an amply sufficient motive for the mur- 
der. The only point which remained obscure was the 
identity of your patient, and the means by which his 
disappearance had been accounted for. 

“My hypothesis, then, had been changed into highly 
probable theory. The next stage was the necessary veri- 
fication. I began with a rather curious experiment. The 
man who tried to murder Marion could have been no 
other than her father’s murderer. Then he must have 
been Morris. But it seemed that he was totally unlike 
Morris, and the mask evidently suggested to her no re- 
semblance. But yet it was probable that the man was 
Morris, for the striking features—the hook nose and the 
heavy brows—would be easily ‘made up,’ especially at 
night. The question was whether the face was Morris’s 
with these additions. I determined to put that question 
to the test. And here Polton’s new accomplishment came 
to our aid. 

“First, with a pinch of clay, we built up on Morris’s 
mask a nose of the shape described and slightly thickened 
the brows. Then Polton made a gelatine mould, and 
from this produced a wax mask. He fitted it with glass 
eyes and attached it to a rough plaster head, with ears 


THORNDYKE DISENTANGLES THREADS 285 


which were casts of my own painted. We then fixed on 
a moustache, beard, and wig, and put on a shirt, collar, 
and jacket. It was an extraordinarily crude affair, sug- 
gestive of the fifth of November. But it answered the 
purpose, which was to produce a photograph; for we 
made the photograph so bad—so confused and ill-fo- 
cussed—that the crudities disappeared, while the essential 
likeness remained. As you know, that photograph was 
instantly recognized, without any sort of suggestion. So 
the first test gave a positive result. Marion’s assailant 
was pretty certainly Morris.” 

“YT should like to have seen Mr. Polton’s ’prentice 
effort,’ said Marion, who had been listening, enthralled 
by this description. 

“You shall see it now,” Thorndyke replied with a 
smile. “Tt is in the next room, concealed in a cupboard.” 

He went out, and presently returned, carrying what 
looked like an excessively crude hairdresser’s dummy, but 
a most extraordinarily horrible and repulsive one. As 
he turned the face towards us, Marion gave a little cry 
of horror and then tried to laugh—without very striking 
success, 

“Tt is a dreadful-looking thing!’ she exclaimed; “and 
so hideously like that fiend.” She gazed at it with the 
most extreme repugnance for a while, and then said, 
apologetically: “I hope you won’t think me very silly, 
but——”’ 

“Of course I don’t,” Thorndyke interrupted. “It is 
going back to its cupboard at once;” and with this he 
bore it away, returning in a few moments with a smaller 
object, wrapped in a cloth, which he laid on the table. 
“Another ‘exhibit,’ as they say in the courts,” he ex- 


286 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


plained, “which we shall want presently. Meanwhile we 
resume the thread of our argument. 

“The photograph of this wax-work, then, furnished 
corroboration of the theory that Morris was the man 
whom we were seeking. My next move was to inquire 
at Scotland Yard if there were any fresh developments of 
the Van Zellen case. The answer was that there were; 
and Superintendent Miller arranged to come and tell me 
all about them. You were present at the interview and 
will remember what passed. His information was highly 
important, not only by confirming my inference that 
Bendelow was the murderer, but especially by disposing 
of the difficulty connected with the disappearance of your 
patient. For now there came into view a second man— 
Crile—who had died at Hoxton of an abdominal cancer 
and had been duly buried; and when you were able to 
give me this man’s address, a glance at the map and at 
the Post Office Directory showed that the two men had 
died in the same house. This fact, with the further facts 
that they had died of virtually the same disease and with- 
in a day or two of the same date, left no reasonable doubt 
that we were really dealing with one man, who had died 
and for whom two death certificates, in different names, 
and two corresponding burial orders, had been obtained. 
There was only one body, and that was cremated in the 
name of Bendelow. It followed that the coffin which was 
buried at Mr. Crile’s funeral must have been an empty 
cofin. J was so confident that this must be so that I 
induced Miller to apply for an exhumation, with the re- 
sults that you know. 

“There now remained only a single point requiring veri- 
fication: the question as to what face it was that those 


THORNDYKE DISENTANGLES THREADS 287 


two ladies saw when they looked into the coffin of Simon 
Bendelow. Here again Polton’s new accomplishments 
came to our aid. From the plaster mask your apprentice 
made a most realistic wax mask, which I offer for your 
critical inspection.” 

He unfolded the cloth and produced a mask of thin, 
yellowish wax and of a most cadaverous aspect, which 
he handed to Marion. 

“Yes,” she said approvingly, “it is an excellent piece 
of work; and what beautiful eyelashes. They look ex- 
actly like real ones.” 

“They are real ones,” Thorndyke explained with a 
chuckle. 

She looked up at him inquiringly, and then, breaking 
into a ripple of laughter, exclaimed: “Of course! They 
are his own! Oh! How like Mr. Polton. But he was 
quite right, you know. He couldn’t have got the effect 
any other way.” 

“So he declared,” said Thorndyke. ‘Well, we hired 
a coffin and had an inspection window put in the lid, and 
we got a black skull cap. We put a dummy head in the 
coffin with a wig on it; we laid the mask where the face 
should have been, and we adjusted the jaw-bandage and 
the skull cap so as to cover up the edges of the mask, and 
we got the two ladies here and showed them the coffin. 
When they had identified the tenant as Mr. Bendelow, the 
verification was complete. The hypothesis was now con- 
verted into ascertained fact, and all that remained to be 
done was to lay hands on the murderer.” 

“How did you find out where Morris was living?” I 
asked. 

“Barber did that,” he replied. “When I learned that 


288 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


you were being stalked, I employed Barber to shadow 
you. He, of course, observed Morris on your track and 
followed him home.” 

“That was what I supposed,” said I; and for a while 
we were all silent. Presently Marion said: “It is all 
very involved and confusing. Would you mind telling 
us exactly what happened ?” 

“In a direct narrative, you mean?” said he. “Yes, I 
will try to reconstruct the events in the order of their 
occurrence. They began with the murder of Van Zellen 
by Bendelow. There was no evidence against him at the 
time, but he had to fly from America for other reasons, 
and he left behind him incriminating traces which he 
_knew must presently be discovered, and which would fix 
the murder on him. His friend, Crile, who fled with him, 
developed gastric cancer, and had only a month or two 
to live. Then Bendelow decided that when Crile should 
die, he would make believe to die at the same time. To 
this end, he commissioned your father to make a wax 
mask—a portrait mask of himself with the eyes closed. 
His wife must then have persuaded the two spinsters to 
visit him—he, of course, taking to his bed when they 
called, and being represented as a mortally sick man. 
Then he moved from Hornsey to Hoxton, taking Crile 
with him. There he engaged two doctors—Usher and 
Gray, both of whom lived at a distance—to attend Crile, 
and to visit him on alternate days. Crile seems to have 
been deaf, or, at least, hard of hearing, and was kept 
continuously under the influence of morphia. Usher, 
who was employed by Mrs. Bendelow, whom he knew as 
Mrs. Pepper, came to the front of the house, in Field- 
street, to visit Mr. Crile, while Stephen—who was em- 


THORNDYKE DISENTANGLES THREADS 289 


ployed by the Bendelows, whom he knew by the name of 
Morris—entered at the rear of the house in Market-street, 
to visit the same man under the name of Bendelow. 
About the time of the move Bendelow committed the 
murder in order to destroy all evidence of the making 
of the wax mask. 

“Eventually Crile died—or was finished off with an 
extra dose of morphia—on a Thursday. Usher gave the 
certificate, and the funeral took place on the Saturday. 
But previously—probably on the Friday night—the coffin- 
lid was unscrewed by Bendelow, the body taken out and 
replaced by a sack of sawdust with some lead pipe in it. 

“On the Monday the body was again produced: this 
time as that of Simon Bendelow, who was represented as 
having died on the Sunday afternoon. It was put ina 
cremation coffin with a celluloid window in the lid. The 
wax mask was placed over the face; the jaw-bandage and 
the skull cap adjusted to hide the place where the wax 
face joined the real face; and the two spinsters were 
brought up to see Mr. Bendelow in his coffin. They 
looked in through the window, and, of course, saw the 
wax mask of Bendelow. They then retired. The coffin- 
lid was taken off, the wax mask removed, the coffin-lid 
screwed on again, and then the two doctors were brought 
up. They removed the body from the coffin, examined 
it, and put it back; and Bendelow—or Morris—put on the 
coffin-lid. 3 

“As soon as the doctors were gone, the coffin-lid was 
taken off again, the wax mask was put back and adjusted, 
and the coffin-lid replaced and screwed down finally. 
Then the two ladies were brought up again to take a 
last look at poor Mr. Bendelow; not actually the last look, 


290 THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY 


for, at the funeral they peeped in at the window and 
saw the wax face just before the coffin was passed through 
into the crematorium.” | 

“Tt was a diabolically clever scheme,” said I. 

“Tt was,” he agreed. “It was perfectly convincing and 
consistent. If you and those two ladies had been put 
in the witness-box, your testimony and theirs would have 
been in complete agreement. They had seen Simon Ben- 
delow (whom they knew quite well) in his coffin. A few 
minutes later, you had seen Simon Bendelow in his coffin, 
had taken the body out, examined it thoroughly, and put 
it back, and had seen the coffin-lid screwed down, and 
again a few minutes later, they had looked in through 
the coffin-window and had again seen Simon Bendelow. 
The evidence would appear to be beyond the possibility 
of a doubt. Simon Bendelow was proved conclusively 
to be dead and cremated and was doubly certified to have 
died from natural causes. Nothing could be more com- 
plete. 

“And yet,” he continued, after a pause, “while we are 
impressed by the astonishing subtlety and ingenuity dis- 
played, we are almost more impressed by the fundamental 
stupidity exhibited along with it; a stupidity that seems 
to be characteristic of this type of criminal. For all the 
security that was gained by one part of the scheme was 
destroyed by the idiotic efforts to guard against dangers 
that had no existence. The murder was not only a foul 
crime; it was a technical blunder of the most elementary 
kind. But for that murder, Bendelow would now be alive 
and in unchallenged security. The cremation scheme was 
completely successful. It deceived everybody. Even the 
two detectives, though they felt vague suspicions, saw no 


THORNDYKE DISENTANGLES THREADS 291 


loophole. ‘They had to accept the appearances at their 
face value. 

“But it was the old story. The wrongdoer could not 
keep quiet. He must be for ever making himself safer 
and yet more safe. And at each move, he laid down fresh 
tracks. And so, in the end, he delivered himself into 
our hands.” 

He paused and for a while seemed to be absorbed in 
reflection on what he had been telling us. Presently he 
looked up, and addressing Marion, said in grave, quiet 
tones : 

““We have ended our quest and we have secured retribu- 
tion. Justice was beyond our reach, for complete justice 
implies restitution; and to attain that, the dead must have 
been recalled from the grave. But, at least sometimes, 
out of evil cometh good. Surely it will seem to you, 
when, in the happy years which I trust and confidently 
believe lie before you, your thoughts turn back to the 
days of your mourning and grief, that the beloved father, 
who, when living, made your happiness his chief concern, 
even in dying, bequeathed to you a blessing.” 


THE END 


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